Absolute Beginners
by Helena1992
Summary: After an eventful few days, PC Gene Hunt wakes up in a strange room. He isn't sure where it is or how he got there, but knows something is very wrong. Meanwhile, another officer is called to the discovery of a shallow grave...
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, so my first ever fanfiction, scary... A prequel-y thing based on what we find out at the end of Series 3. Hope you enjoy...**

* * *

23rd December 1940

After three hours of not too distant booms that shook the house almost as terribly as they shook her nerves, Evelyn Hunt finally admitted defeat.

'We're going to your grandfather's,' she told the two boys sitting in the kitchen with her as she extinguished her cigarette and grabbed their coats, sick of listening to the constant rattle of the china in the dresser and the groan of the stairs. She could hear her husband's voice in her ear, chastising her for being frightened, telling her she was as bad as the children to run to his father at the slightest thing. Still, she had never pretended to be brave. _Not all of us are soldiers_, she reassured herself, though she was certain neither of her sons were as afraid as she was. Stuart was impassive, his face a blank mask as usual, unreadable. _He's so quiet, has he always been so quiet_? she wondered as he disappeared upstairs to fetch the bags she had packed earlier, just in case. She half wished he could have been younger than thirteen, too young to be frightened. Instead, she had watched his knuckles whiten at ever sickening whistle of another bomb falling.

'Mam? Is it Christmas yet? Mam? Mam!' Eugene shouted from the window. For all of Stuart's silence, her younger son more than made up for it. For the past hour he had stood on a box by the window, watching out for flashes of light and imitating the sounds of the bombs, unconvinced by her or Stuart that the commotion outside was not a herald to the early arrival of Father Christmas.

'No. Two more sleeps,' Evelyn replied, forcing a weary smile, 'Come here and put your coat on,' she asked. She crouched down in front of him and as he tried to stifle a yawn, lest he should be sent to bed, she capitalised on this momentary calm and manipulated his arms into the small coat, a miniature version of the coat that Stuart pulled on as he hurried back into the kitchen, dumping the three gas masks and two small backpacks on an empty chair.

'D'you want me to lock up?' he asked her as she attempted to button his brother into his coat.

'Just the front door, sweetheart, if those things get any closer it isn't going to matter whether we locked up or not- Jesus, would you keep still?' she snapped at Eugene, hopping from one foot to the other and itching to run to the window to see the latest bomb fall.

'Masks, bags, valuables,' Evelyn reeled off as she wound a scarf around Eugene's neck, 'Should we take anything else? Maybe I should-'

'Mam, let's just go,' Stuart said firmly.

'Where're we going?' Eugene asked as they made their way through dark alleyways and side streets, their breath steaming in the freezing December air.

'Grandad's,' Stuart answered, taking Eugene's small hand in his. Evelyn walked slightly ahead of them, firstly to check the way was clear so none would stumble in the dark and secondly to have a cigarette in peace and not be Mam for a few precious minutes.

'Oh. Will Father Christmas know we're there?' came the next question. She could tell by the tone of his voice that her youngest son was wrestling with a dilemma. If they went to her father-in-law's house, there was a chance he would be missed by Father Christmas. However, a visit to his grandfather was almost as good as Christmas anyway, it was simply a question as to which old man would give the better present.

'Yeah. He will.'

'But _how_ will he know we've gone out?'

'Because he knows everything.'

'At Sunday school they said God knows everything.'

'That's because God and Father Christmas are friends.'

'Oh.'

When they reached James Hunt's house half an hour later, it was to the sound of a church bell ringing twelve in the brief calm.

'_Now_ it's Christmas Eve,' Evelyn whispered into Eugene's hair as she balanced him precariously on her hip, kissing the top of his head. He was dozing lightly and yawned in reply, the day's excitement finally catching up with him. Stuart rapped on the door and Evelyn was relieved to see that her sister-in-law had also chosen to come here.

'All right, Evelyn? Come in out the cold, Dad's just putting on a brew,' Sheila sighed, ushering them inside.

'Would you look at this one?' she smiled as Evelyn set Eugene down in the hallway, 'Can't barely keep his eyes open, can you, Genie? How old are you now?'

'Seven now,' Evelyn answered for him, tugging off the small coat it had been such a struggle to get him into, 'I think I'll put him to bed, it's better he sleeps through it.'

'And miss all the excitement?' James called from the kitchen. The sound of his voice roused Eugene from his drowsiness and sent him bowling into the kitchen, back to chattering nineteen to the dozen. This was nothing unexpected; both grandfather and grandson had gotten along exceptionally well since Eugene was old enough to talk. Whilst he had never been prone to shyness, she knew James shared more than she ever would with her child, and especially more so than he would ever share with his father. Stephen Hunt had gotten into a fight in the pub, as was customary on a Friday night, only this particular night his assailant had come at him with a broken pint glass. Built, in his own words, like a brick shithouse, Stephen had easily floored the other man. Except the contact this man's head had made with a corner of a nearby table had killed him. Though a lenient judge and a jury sympathetic to his plea of self-defence heard his case, Stephen still found himself beginning a prison sentence of several years. With one young son and a baby on the way, Evelyn found a saviour in her father-in-law, who made it his personal mission to see that they wanted for nothing. The origins of some of the items she was gifted with were dubious, but she had already experienced that from her marriage and knew it was better to say nothing and accept them with gratitude. He had seemed the most concerned with the fact that his youngest grandchild would be without his father for so long and had taken his paternal role very seriously.

As Stuart joined his cousins in the front room, Evelyn followed Sheila into the kitchen and found Eugene and James sitting at the kitchen table in deep discussion.

'I was planning on going over to check on you and the boys tonight,' James told her.

'I was just-' Evelyn began embarrassedly.

'I think it's better for everyone to be together at times like this,' he said over her apologies, 'It was very kind of you both to make sure I wasn't blown to bits.'

'Actually, we thought that if you were, we might be able to find out where you're hiding all your cash,' Sheila replied slyly.

'I'm a poor old man, love, don't know what cash you're on about,' he said with an innocent shrug. A particularly loud boom made Evelyn start and give a scream in fright.

'Phew, that's loud, hmm?' James whispered to Eugene.

'Granddad? How many more sleeps is it till Christmas?' Eugene asked. As neither Evelyn nor Stuart had provided satisfactory answers, it was up to his grandfather to set the record straight.

'Genie, I told you, it's two,' Evelyn said tiredly.

'One. I slept on the way here.'

'It's still nighttime, sweetheart. Speaking of which, you should go to bed,' she reminded both herself and him.

'I'm not tired. I'm not really, Granddad. Father Christmas is in the sky, right now. I heard him.'

'That's not Father Christmas, lovey, that's the Germans attacking us. That's who your dad and Uncle John are fighting,' Sheila explained.

'But… Father Christmas is on our side, isn't he? Mam?'

'Of course he is,' she sighed.

'What if one of the Germans hits his sleigh?' Eugene asked worriedly.

'Well, he thought of that… He didn't want boys and girls to go without just because of Hitler. So he came to see me yesterday and left something for me to give to you when it was time,' James said, getting to his feet and rooting through a cupboard to find something. Holding it behind his back, he presented Eugene with the model ship. Despite her exhaustion and terror, Evelyn allowed herself the smallest smile. James had been carving wooden models for as long as she had known him, but they had developed from fairly crude cravings when she had first married Stephen into the intricate models the likes of which Eugene was presented now. His eyes were round with delight as he brushed the small cloth sails and string rigging with the tips of his fingers.

'Wow,' Eugene breathed.

'Every ship needs a captain,' James said, handing Eugene a miniscule captain to accompany the ship, 'And did you see what the ship is called, Geno?' he asked.

'Same as me,' he said with a grin as he traced the letters of his name along the side of the ship, 'Will it really sail, Granddad?'

'We'll try it in the spring,' James promised. Eugene sat in silence, marvelling at the ship for a few minutes, until the bright smile slipped from his face slightly.

'What's the matter? Storm at sea?' James asked with a smile as he ruffled Eugene's hair.

'Does the captain have any friends?' he asked. Sheila let out a hoot of laughter.

'He wants his money's worth, Dad!' she snorted.

'I think you mean, 'Thank you very much, Granddad'!' Evelyn hissed across the table. James smiled again and pulled Eugene onto his lap.

'Don't you worry yourself over him, Geno. He's captain of the ship. He's got his own kingdom, where everything's just how he likes it, forever and ever.'

'He's not lonely?'

'He's too busy fighting pirates to get lonely.'

1st June 1953

Armed with a bag full of silverware and a crowbar, the man who kicked the back gate leading into the alleyway gave a wild whoop of laughter as he glanced over his shoulder to see the middle-aged constable slam into the stonewall opposite the gate. The constable began to pursue at a lumbering pace, lurching down the alleyway and was followed in turn by a younger officer emerging from another side street. Richard Pierce recognised from previous run-ins with the police and the all too neat uniform that the second constable was a new recruit and felt more elated at the thought. Experience had taught him that this novice, like so many others before him, would be nervous and trying to remember everything they had been taught in the weeks beforehand, and would inevitably panic when the arrest didn't go as smoothly as he had envisaged, thereby allowing him to slip away.

What he hadn't expected when the senior constable slumped against a fence in defeat was for the young PC to break into a sprint and begin to catch him up. Clutching at his side, Pierce hurried to increase his pace. As he rounded another sharp corner he cursed the army under his breath; this national service they were all sent on would be behind training this officer to run like that. Hearing footsteps draw closer behind him, Pierce swung the crowbar wildly backwards, hoping it would make contact with either his head or any of his long limbs, anything to incapacitate this boy. The low groan that followed told him that his aim wasn't as good as he had hoped.

'Bastard,' Gene panted, massaging his bruised hip as he pushed off from the wall to continue the chase. Morrison was following at a leisurely jog, huffing with effort and no help to Gene. He might have caught Pierce sooner, had Morrison not insisted on leading. Though by no means wider than the average man, neither was Morrison particularly tall and Gene could cover double the amount of ground in the same stride. Still, Morrison would be the first to admit this and now gestured for Gene to carry on the pursuit without him.

He drew almost level with Pierce again and was sure that if he reached out his hand he could grab Pierce by the scruff of his neck, but was wary of the swing of that crowbar, especially within nose breaking vicinity. Instead, he dealt a quick kick to the back of Pierce's knee and he went down with a smack, nose making painful contact with the cobbled ground.

'Ha!' Gene hissed, pressing his knee between Pierce's shoulder blades as he fished in a back pocket for a pair of brand new handcuffs.

'Late for dinner, were you?' Morrison asked mockingly as a dish lid rolled slowly out of the bag of silverware, coming to a halt at his feet.

'Wouldn't have been if it was just you, old boy. Who's your dogsbody?' Pierce sneered. Gene jerked him to his feet and Morrison grabbed his other shoulder as they began to march him down the street.

'Usually your lot are running _away_ from the station, so it was good of you to do the opposite,' Gene said brightly, taking care to bang Pierce into a dustbin.

'Do I know you?' Pierce asked him after a moment's scrutinising.

'Doubt it.'

'You look familiar.'

'I promise you, I'm not.'

'What's your name?'

'It's PC Hunt to you.'

'You any relation to Stephen… or James? Sorry to hear he died,' Pierce managed before Gene swung him into the stone wall.

'I'd be _very_ careful what you say next. You're not fit to say his name… Did- did you know him?'

'Nah… Only heard Stephen mention him. You did though. How are you and Stephen related?'

'James is- was my granddad.'

'Oho! So you'reone of Stephen's? Thought you might've been a cousin or something. Small world, ain't it?'

'Well, before we start reminiscing about old times, I'll ask again: how do you know Stephen?' Gene snapped. Pierce gave an unpleasant smile.

'I know your dad of old. You tell him, boy, tell him Richard says hello.'

'That's enough!' Morrison said sharply as Gene drew back his fist to hit Pierce.

'Right, you go to the Arms and get a round in. I'll make sure your mate finds a nice cell to stew in before I knock off. We can deal with him tomorrow,' Morrison ordered, taking Gene's arm and steering him in the opposite direction.

'Shouldn't we-?'

'Listen, tomorrow's going to be a long day, for Christ's sake let's not make it one today.'

Gene left Morrison sinking lower and lower in his chair two hours later, making his excuses to leave. Though he hated to admit it and would never do so, the first week on the beat had left him knackered. Needing to be constantly alert and ready to spring into action was more exhausting than the little action he had so far seen. Today it had been a relief to actually do something; chasing Pierce had released the nervous energy he had been running on. Besides which, watching Morrison grow steadily drunker was not how he hoped to spend his evening. As he had attempted to leave, Morrison had the front of his shirt in a vice-like grip and repeatedly predicted Gene a brilliant career in the force, looking for the assent of anyone else who would listen.

'Sergeant! You'll be sergeant as soon as- as- very soon! Or in CID! Mark my words, you'll go far… Give it a few years and everyone'll know your name. Good old John!'

'Gene.'

'Him an' all.'

He did like the sound of Sergeant Hunt. He liked the sound of Inspector Hunt better though, the former reminded him of red-faced sergeants he wished to leave behind with the rest of national service, screaming in his face. If two years of national service had taught him nothing else, it was that he did not suit the army. He didn't like the petty rules he couldn't see the point of and especially didn't like being yelled at and unable to answer back. He had imagined two years away from home would be a good escape, instead he found his father's angry voice had been replaced by that of an army officer's, albeit in a slightly warmer climate.

The day's rain had eased off whilst he and Morrison had been sat in the pub and as he rounded the corner to let himself in the back of the house he found Will kicking a ball through the puddles left by the rain, commentating on an imaginary match.

'And Hunt swoops in and takes possession of the ball! Oh, I don't think we've ever seen the like before! Did anyone see that coming? No! Least of all Will Hunt, he doesn't know what's hit him. Bad luck, Man United, bad luck, you'll have to get up earlier to beat Hunt… And he scores! A spectacular goal by Gene Hunt!' he yelled as he tackled the ball from Will and kicked it against a fence, doing an imaginary lap of honour.

'You're soaked. How long have you been out here?' Gene asked, coming to a halt in front of Will and throwing him the ball.

'Since the end of school. I'm keeping out the way. Mam's busy and there's already enough people at home… I hate this coronation,' Will muttered, bouncing the ball in front of him.

'Why? What's Liz ever done to you?'

'Taken over tomorrow. Now everyone's too busy getting ready for her.'

'She's got you a day off school.'

'But everyone's forgotten about my birthday!'

'Well, I suppose if everyone's forgotten about it, then this can't be for you, can it?' Gene replied, producing a wrapped box from an inside pocket. Will's eyes widened as he stretched out a hand for it.

'How d'you expect other people to remember if you forget that you don't get birthday presents until it's actually your birthday?'

'What is it, Gene?'

'Dunno,' he shrugged with a smile, 'Wait and see.'

'Did you get anyone today, Geno?' Sheila asked interestedly from the other end of the alleyway. She and their cousin, Charlotte were well wrapped up against the cool evening air as they made their way home.

'Some idiot thought he'd burgle a house near the station. He didn't get too far.'

'He might be the same person who came to your house.'

'What?'

'Your mam was out and someone broke in. Lucky your dad was there, otherwise who knows what they'd have taken?'

'Lucky it wasn't Mam on her own,' Gene said with a shiver at the thought. He was going to enjoy seeing Richard Pierce again tomorrow, though he half felt the bloke had suffered enough; expecting to find either an empty house or an easily frightened woman was something quite different to coming face to face with all eighteen stone of Stephen Hunt, 'Did anyone call the police?'

'No, your dad said there was no need. Your mam's pretty upset though, best go see how she is.'

'All right. I'll try to catch up with you in a minute, said I'd drop in on Emma if I had time,' Gene said as they bid goodbye to Sheila and Charlotte.

'Did all this slip your mind?' Gene asked Will incredulously as they let themselves into the kitchen. Evelyn was dabbing tentatively at a cut above Stephen Hunt's right eye, the smell of antiseptic filling the kitchen.

'What happened?' Gene asked.

'Burglar,' Stephen replied shortly, stubbing out a cigarette with a sigh.

'When?'

'I just popped out to get a few last minute things and-' Evelyn began, trying to bandage the cut when Stephen waved her away.

'Someone thought they'd have a go and I saw them off. The end.'

'Dad, what did he look like? We could-'

'Yes, _thank you_, PC Plod… will you stop fussing?' Stephen snapped at Evelyn.

'Sort yourself out then. I've got a million other things to do,' she snapped back.

'Dad, was it Richard Pierce?' Gene persisted. He thought he saw a flicker of something pass across Stephen's face, but the moment was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

'Who?'

'He burgled a house today… I arrested him,' Gene told the kitchen as a whole, with the smallest hint of pride, something Stephen was quick to pick up on.

'Ooh, arrested him? D'you want a medal?' he sneered. Will stopped bouncing the ball against the floor and retreated into a corner of the kitchen.

'He said he knew you,' Gene continued, ignoring the previous jibe.

'Do you, Stephen?' Evelyn asked cautiously, unravelling a roll of bandages in another attempt to tend her husband's injuries.

'Yeah, well, maybe I met him on the inside. Meet a lot of people in five years,' Stephen shrugged.

'Yes, but-'

'D'you expect me to remember everyone I've ever met?'

'No… Did they take any-?'

'Oh, pack it in, PC Prat! Where were you and your sodding uniform when they were needed?' Stephen shouted, crossing the kitchen and retrieving a bottle of scotch from under the kitchen sink.

'Catching your mate,' Gene muttered, throwing his constable's hat into the armchair in the corner of the room and sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. Wordlessly, Evelyn placed a mug of sugary tea in front of him, smoothing his hair, a gestured that pleaded for him not to retaliate.

Until he was six it had just been him, Stuart, their mother and Granddad, with occasionally Aunt Sheila and the cousins. Then war had broken out and Stephen had been given the choice either to remain in prison or to be conscripted into the army. Choosing the latter had meant his return home for the briefest time and Gene had not welcomed the sudden intrusion of the ogre plucked almost directly from the book of fairytales his mother occasionally read to him, who took up a surprising amount of room in the house and seemed to be never happier than when he was shouting. Then, he was gone again and it was almost as though he had imagined the whole thing. When the war ended, the paperwork pertaining to Stephen's incarceration was conveniently misplaced by the same authorities who had regretted having to sentence him with manslaughter in the first place. This Stephen was so vastly different to the image of the man that others mentioned when they spoke to his mother in the street, telling her what a shame it was, and to James that Gene was half convinced that the wrong Stephen had come back to them. When he returned home early enough to see his family before they went to bed, it was with a malevolent aura that made them wish he had remained at the pub. The whole room would tense when he entered it and the apprehension was most apparent in their mother, whose shoulders would hunch as she kept her eyes averted from her husband, silently hoping her children would do the same. The drinking made him paranoid and more easy with his fists, increasing the risk that one of them might strike his wife or that what usually would have earned one of the boys a cuff around the back of the head would lead to a proper belting. Nowadays it was only truly the tension in the room that remained, being on the receiving end of Stephen's anger was less likely now, with both Stuart and Gene strong enough to stand between and restrain their father, however the threat of violence still hung in the air.

'Right, I'm off out,' Gene said, downing the rest of the tea and picking his jacket back up.

'You are not,' Evelyn replied shortly.

'What?'

'You and William are going to tidy that bedroom of yours. Stuart and Nancy should be here this evening and I want that room spotless for when they arrive.'

'And what are they going to be doing in our bedroom?'

'Sleeping. They're staying over for a couple of nights for the coronation.'

'Well, where are me and Will supposed to sleep?' Gene asked indignantly.

'Living room,' Evelyn answered vacantly, attention turned back to preparing more food for the next day.

'Can't they sleep in the living room?' Will asked, bouncing the football on the linoleum.

'No, they bloody well can't! Baby's due any day now and that poor girl needs to be comfortable!' Evelyn snapped, 'And take that ball outside.'

'Eurgh, she better not even think about dropping that baby anywhere near our room,' Gene said sounding repulsed.

'What?'

'For goodness sake, I don't think it's due that soon, probably sometime in the next week,' Evelyn said.

'Who? Mam?'

'She was big as a bloody house the last time we saw them. Christ, rather him than me.'

'I'll remind you of that in about ten years, when you've got your own,' Evelyn said knowingly.

'Yeah, that girl'll want a ring on her finger and a baby on the way soon enough,' Stephen added in warning, sitting back down at the table with another glass of scotch.

'Who's dropped a baby?' Will shouted at the top of his voice, bouncing the ball again.

'What did your mother tell you about that ball?' Stephen shouted, kicking back his chair and rounding on Will.

'Stephen, it doesn't matter, love… Will, can you take that ball outside?' Evelyn asked desperately.

'He needs to learn!'

'He's all right. Will, let's sort that room,' Gene said confidently, guiding Will away from the corner of the kitchen he had shrunk into, hoping that Will would learn to behave as though he had nothing to fear from his father, something that had always served Gene well; pretending to not be afraid had the effect of dissipating his own fear. Stephen seized his arm.

'Where do you think you're going? I'm his father, I'll say if he's got to be punished or not!' he said, words beginning to blur together.

'He doesn't,' Gene replied.

'And I'll say if _you've_ got to be as well! You might think you're the big man now, but you're not too old to be belted.'

'You try it, and I'll arrest you.'

Stephen squared up to him and Gene wondered what he would do if he did lunge for him. Despite being nearly two inches taller, he was half as wide as his father and would prove an ineffective shield for Will. _Though if I could side-step him, then I could cuff him, miserable fat bastard_, he thought. Instead of attacking, Stephen simply gave a mirthless laugh when his face was an inch away from Gene's.

'You've always been a little shit,' he said softly.

'Come on, Will, let's go upstairs,' Gene said, ignoring Stephen and marching Will out of the kitchen away from him, knowing that simply ignoring him would rile the drunk part of him, but would leave the half sober Stephen feeling wrong-footed and angry.

Neither Gene nor Will had said a word an hour later when they had finally tidied their bedroom to a standard that Evelyn was satisfied with. Will was still shivering in fright and as he retrieved odd socks from hard to reach nooks of the room, Gene found he was shaking almost as badly, but with exhilaration. Stephen had left the house almost as soon as he and Will had disappeared upstairs and Gene had felt nothing but triumph at the sound of the front door closing. Maybe this would be how he guaranteed his mother and brother's safety, by arresting Stephen if he dared raise a hand to either of them and it would be all the worse if he tried it with Gene, assaulting a police officer would not be taken lightly.

'Will, go and say hello to Nancy,' Gene instructed when they heard their mother cooing over Nancy and their soon to be niece or nephew, 'And how old are you tomorrow?'

'Seven,' Will sniffed.

'Exactly. Big boy now, so no tears,' Gene said firmly, packing the last few bits and pieces into the wooden box he kept under his bed. Their bedroom was dominated by the three beds placed in there from the briefest time when all three of them had shared the room. Gene preferred the bed closest to the door, to save from having to clamber across the other two for a piss. There was the occasional hazard of finding a muddy footprint on his own bed.

After shoving the box in the bottom of the wardrobe in the corner of the room he hurried downstairs to find Evelyn and Nancy in deep conversation over a mug of tea and cigarette, Will resting his head on their mother's shoulder, able to do so without being reprimanded by their father for now.

'Taking care of my nephew, Nance?' Gene asked, bending to allow her to kiss his cheek without having to get up. Nancy patted her distended belly with a contented smile.

'You can have him when he's ready,' she replied, 'He's driving me mad.'

'Where's his father?'

'Outside with the dog,' Nancy sighed. Gene let himself out the back door and found Stuart leaning against the gate, watching Holiday run around the garden and leap at him, beside himself that Stuart was back.

'All right?' Stuart asked with a dark look and Gene could tell that Evelyn had already partly filled him in on what had happened before he arrived.

'Yes, we're fine.'

'What was the matter this time?'

'Could tell he was looking for a fight, and he decided to pick on Will.'

'Mam said you threatened to arrest him.'

'Yeah, I did,' Gene replied, throwing a stick for Holiday.

'Christ, you've only had that warrant for a week and you're already trying to lock your own family,' Stuart laughed, handing him a cigarette.

'I'm not dealing with scum all day, then coming home to another.'

'Well, I meant what I said, you could always come stay with Nance and me.'

'Who's going to look after Mam and Will then? Besides, not going to be a lot of room to stay with you two soon, is there?' Gene shrugged. Since Stuart had moved into his own house with Nancy in the middle of Manchester, he had repeatedly offered for Gene to live with them, knowing how badly he and Stephen got along. Gene had half resented Stuart for this; he had moved out of their home as soon as he could and seemed, in Gene's eyes, determined to rub it in that he was free from worrying about their father. He knew there was nothing to stop Gene from packing a bag and moving into their house, nothing except the sense of duty he had to their mother and Will, something he rather thought Stuart had selfishly forgotten about.

'Can't believe you're going to have a kid,' Gene murmured.

'Me neither… Everyone keeps giving me advice, even Dad and-'

'Well, what the hell would he know about being a father?' Gene spat, fiercer than he had intended, 'He's only doing it so you'll name the kid after him… or call her Stephanie.'

'Well, we're not. Nance reckons it is a boy, in which case he's going to be Eugene James.'

'Ah, mate, don't call him Eugene,' Gene said, humbled by the suggestion, 'Or maybe you should, it sets you up for all the disappointments in life.'

'Whatever he's called, I don't think… I mean, Jesus, I- How am I supposed to be someone's dad?' Stuart asked agitatedly, 'He'd be better off with no dad than with me.'

'Stu, you haven't got anything to worry about there… Anyway, you've just… got to get on with it. He needs you.'

'Does he?' Stuart muttered.

'Listen- what's that?' Gene asked, frowning at Stuart's hand closed around a small tin. Stuart didn't answer and flicked the lid open and closed, lost in thought. Gene could see the tin contained a small amount of white powder.

'I thought you'd given all that up. Stu-'

'Going to arrest me and all? You'll have the whole family banged up before tea tomorrow.'

'Gene?'

'What?'

'How many baddies have you got?' Will whispered. The rest of the house was silent and asleep, save Will, too excited about his impending birthday, and by Will's chatter, Gene.

'Give me a chance, Will, it's only been a week,' Gene groaned. Will had curled up in the armchair, whilst he had made up a bed on the sofa, though his feet were freezing from sticking out the end of his blankets.

'Are you a proper policeman?'

'Yes, I think so. Go to sleep.'

'Gene?'

'Yes, Will?'

'Who would win in a fight between Father Christmas and Satan?'

'That's easy, Father Christmas.'

'But he's so fat!'

'Yeah, but he's one of the good guys.'

'Yeah?'

'And the good guys always win. That's the point.'

'We're the good guys, aren't we?'

'Yes. Especially me and you.'

'Us?'

'Yep. I'm Gary Cooper, and you can be John Wayne, when you're bigger. Maybe when you're eight.'

'All right.'

'Will?'

'Yeah?'

'Can you shut up now and let us get some sleep?'

2nd June 1953

They awoke the next morning to a loud banging and scraping in the kitchen, accompanied by the sounds of several excited voices. Gene left Will sleeping, dressed quickly and entered the kitchen to find his father and Stuart heaving a television into the house, watched by Evelyn, Sheila, Nancy and Charlotte.

'Where the bloody hell did you get that?' he asked his father incredulously. Stephen simply smiled. He looked somewhat worse for wear and Gene suspected terribly hung over; he had returned from the pub long after they had fallen asleep. Nevertheless, he appeared to be in a better mood than he had been the night before.

'Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies,' he said, 'It's not stolen, so you can stop worrying about that,' he snapped when he saw the disapproving look Gene gave him, mirrored by Evelyn.

'Anyway, haven't you got somewhere to go, Eugene?' Stephen asked after he and Stuart had lugged the television into the living room. He hated it when his father used his full name, always with the same curl of his lip as he drew out the syllables mockingly. _You-Gene_.

'Yes,' Gene answered shortly, squeezing past his aunt to grab the hat from the chair he had thrown it in the night before.

'Oh, put it on, let's see,' Nancy smiled.

'It's very dashing, there's a lot to be said for a man in uniform,' Charlotte laughed, patting his backside when he bent to pick up the hat.

'Sod off!'

'Still needs to fill out those shoulders,' Sheila teased, squeezing his arm, 'Give it a couple of years and he'll be breaking a few hearts, won't he, Evelyn?'

'What time will you be back at?' Evelyn asked, halfway through making breakfast for their guests.

'I dunno. Morrison said there's some big party going on at that farm, Farringfield? We'll go there after we knock off. God knows how long we'll be up there.'

'Who's Morrison?' Stuart asked and Gene noticed he looked almost as bad as their father.

'He's Eugene's mentor,' Stephen replied, 'Lives a few streets away with that gorgeous wife-'

'Excuse me,' Evelyn shot back, prodding his shoulder.

'That wife of his… which couldn't hold a candle to my own, of course,' he added, 'Still, bugger me if I know how he landed her. See if you can pick up any tips,' he suggested to Gene.

'Explains why I've never met her,' Gene shrugged, 'In any case, I won't be back till late. Don't let Will have his present from me before I'm back,' he called, slamming the back door shut on his way out.

Despite Gene's confidence that Richard Pierce and the intruder his father had chased off were one and the same, Morrison was much more interested in patrolling the various street parties going on, than going back to the station to get a confession out of Pierce.

'He'll get what's coming, skinny, don't fret,' Morrison repeated as they were handed more cake and lemonade. Gene was beginning to find it as difficult to force a smile as he found it to force down the food they were given.

'I mean, I reckon Pierce's got an accomplice, there's no way he'd be stupid enough to try to rob two houses in one day, but it's too much of a coincidence to have two unconnected burglaries within a couple of streets… Maybe he's working for someone else and-'

'Hunt. It's bad enough that I've got to work today, I've also got to nurse a hangover. All I want is a nice, quiet day, without having to listen to you prattle on endlessly.'

'Yes, sir,' Gene managed, forcing a last mouthful of cake into his mouth to keep a number of retorts down.

By the time they reached Farringfield Green later that evening, Gene thought if he so much looked at another cake again, then he would be violently ill. Morrison had driven them up there, equally stuffed with food and had parked just off the end of a dirt track leading up to the farmhouse and barn. It was common knowledge that some rich bloke he bought the farm several years ago, hoping to do it up and make it his next successful venture. It hadn't worked out and, though still owned by him, the farm languished empty.

The barn had been decked out with bunting and was hosting a large party when they arrived, slipping and sliding through the boggy mud, caused by the past few days' rain. At first, Gene tried to match Morrison drink for drink to keep up appearances, but after a couple of whiskeys he considered himself beaten, unwilling to try to compete with what he was soon realising was a seasoned drinker and unwilling to make a fool of himself in front of a lot of people he knew none of. He noticed his speech was beginning to slur almost as terribly as Morrison's and when he tried to shut his eyes to regain his focus, he felt the earth spin beneath him, and his stomach churn to match it. He exited the barn quickly, determinedly walking in a straight line and sure that if he was going to chuck, it would not be in front of the rest of the partygoers. As he stood outside, the cool night's air steadied him and he began to wonder whether Morrison would notice if he left. He could imagine his house now; the rest of the street would have gathered around the new television, if Charlotte and Sheila were there then there was a good chance Emma would be too and it would be easy to find a secluded corner with her whilst everyone else's attention was elsewhere and Will would have his birthday present.

He wondered how far out this farm was and how long it would take him to walk home? He hadn't been paying much attention when Morrison drove them there. Now he wished he had.

'Too much to drink?'

He spun around to find a woman in her thirties leaning against the side of the barn. She had long auburn hair neatly pinned up and bright blue eyes as she smiled at him.

'M'all right,' he replied, lighting a cigarette awkwardly, hoping now more than ever he wouldn't throw up.

'You got another one?' she asked. He silently handed her a cigarette and gave a small smile when she leaned forward to let him light it for her.

'What's your name?'

'Eu- Gene Hunt.'

'Hmm.'

'What about you?' he asked, his head beginning to clear.

'Anna.'

'Anna?' he repeated, waiting for her to continue. Instead, she smiled slowly.

'You look like a little boy in that uniform.'

'I don't think that's the image it's supposed to give off.'

'No?'

'Nah, it's supposed to look imposing, stern, that sort of thing.'

'Are you imposing and stern, Gene Hunt?' she asked softly, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face.

'Can't you tell?' he smiled.

'Yes,' she replied, leaning closer and kissing him, her tongue exploring his mouth whilst her hands knotted in his hair. Despite himself, hardly daring to believe his good fortune and simultaneously forgetting about Emma, he pulled her closer, appreciating the warmth of her body against his. Without warning, she sprang away from him, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

'I have to go back,' she murmured, flicking the stub of her cigarette into the grass.

'What?' he murmured hoarsely, grabbing her hand in his. She carefully drew hers away.

'My husband will be wondering where I've got to.'

'Husband?'

She smiled mischievously again and made her way back towards the barn. Allowing a moment's pause, Gene followed her, about to give her a piece of his mind about what he thought of her going round kissing other men, leading them on, when her husband stood metres away. That was until he saw her embrace her husband and his blood ran cold.

'Hunt! Hunt! C'mere, this is my wife, Anna. Anna, this is PC Hunt, our newbie,' Morrison called, an arm around his wife's waist.

'Nice to meet you, PC Hunt,' she smiled, this smile wider and less hungry than the smile she had given him outside.

'You too,' he replied, determinedly meeting her eye, though it didn't seem to have any effect on her.

'Hunt, you look green. Doesn't he, Anna? Can't hold his drink!' Morrison hooted.

'Maybe you should lie down,' Anna Morrison advised. Gene jerked his head in a nod.

'Maybe I will,' he excused himself, marching back out the barn for the second time in less than half an hour. He felt sick to his stomach now and it was little to do with the whiskey. He had betrayed Morrison's trust and despite Morrison's obliviousness, he felt guilty. Would she tell her husband? Of course not, he reasoned with himself, it was her that kissed you. Yes, but who would he believe, his wife or some young bobby? If Morrison found out, he could make life terrible for Gene. He would feel no guilt in driving Gene out of the force, and then where would he be? His future gone, reputation destroyed before it had even been made, and his new plan of how to protect his mother and brother from his father in tatters. Besides which, he had kissed her back, he hadn't pulled away. He would have if he had known who she was. Had she known who he was? Of course she had, he was in his uniform, she would have known he was a colleague of her husband's. She won't tell him, Gene reassured himself, she wasn't looking for anything more than a quick thrill, maybe it was something she had done before. Should _he_ tell Morrison? He had a right to know, after all, if his wife was laughing at him behind his back. But telling Morrison would mean admitting to kissing her and he was back to square one again.

'Bollocks,' he muttered, aiming a kick at a stone in the yard. His aimless walking had brought him to the farmhouse. The windows were boarded and the door was hanging open, swinging in the night's breeze. Filled with a sudden recklessness, Gene slipped into the house, flicking his lighter open as he did so. Someone had thrown a load of bunting around in there earlier in the day and it was strung in every room. He moved slowly up the staircase that groaned terribly under the weight of his footsteps. It was only when he reached the top of the staircase that he wondered whether the floor was strong enough to hold his weight, or whether the floorboards were too terribly rotted. He pushed open a door upstairs and found himself in the master bedroom, empty save for a large four-poster bed. Even with a layer of dust coating the coverlet, the bed looked inviting as the effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off. He placed his hat at the foot of the bed, kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie, sinking back into the mattress, planning on resting his eyes for a few minutes.

When he awoke he could still hear the sounds of the party at the barn, though somewhat quieter as partygoers began to retire home. He checked his watch and realised he had been sleeping for three hours. Cursing, he leapt out of the bed, wondering if Morrison would still be at the barn, or whether he would have driven home and left Gene there when he had been unable to find him. He was just about to grab his shoes on when he heard the sound of a voice downstairs. He froze, uncertain whether he had imagined it, when he heard the muffled rumble of another voice, accompanied by the smash of some china. _Probably kids messing about_, he thought to himself. It was exactly the sort of thing he and Stuart would have done when they were children, dared each other to break into the old house, praying they wouldn't see a ghost.

_This lot can have their own ghost_, he thought with a smile as he began to pad down the stairs, the thick dust and lack of shoes muffling his footsteps.

They were in the kitchen. He could see a flickering light gleaming through the ajar door. He had to bite back a laugh at the thought of their faces when he burst through the door. Once again he was reminded of childhood, at playing hide and seek with Stuart and being barely able to stifle his laughter at the thought of Stuart's yell of fright when he leapt out at him.

Gene Hunt straightened his uniform, took a deep breath and kicked the door to the kitchen open.

* * *

**Note: I've always seen Stuart as the older brother and I'm like 99.9% certain it never specifies in the canon whether he is or not. So there. **

**Also, now realising that I've completely contradicted my previous statement by giving them a younger brother with Will in any case. Bugger.**

**Anyway, I hope this was ok and I'm going to write more of it anyway, so hopefully stick around...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 (finally). Enjoy (hopefully).**

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_Someone really ought to clear these up_, Amelia Wells considered as she hurried past the pile of flowers still lingering on the steps of CID. They had started out as a small tribute to DCI Tyler over eighteen months ago, but more and more bouquets had been added as people looked for something to do to ease a guilty conscience, rather than question why it had happened. Amelia had heard the name in passing, but didn't really know of him until he had pitched himself off the building. The flowers had been persistently replaced for the year following his death, after which they had begun to wane as people moved on, save for a few dedicated mourners who appeared to provide a constant supply of fresh flowers. The concrete steps were not the ideal place for a memorial, but as the scale of the tribute had increased, no one had had the heart to move them to a more suitable location.

The flowers that Amelia now tried not to step on were turning to mulch and she wished that someone would just get rid of them, rather than leaving them to rot so forlornly. She could barely see over the top of the stack of files she was carrying and hoped that she wasn't wading through some daffodils unknowingly, but didn't have time to carefully pick her way through the flowers. She had to go home and pack a bag for the weekend, there would be no time to do it later that evening what with the party. Then there was Martin, she would have to make sure he was packed and ready to go, more than likely he would be even less ready than she was, and she had promised Rob she would give him a call before she went out that evening. She wouldn't be able to help herself but ring him later when she had a few drinks, but thought he would appreciate an initial phonecall from a sober fiancée first.

She threw the files and her bag into the back of the car and adjusted her earpiece as she set off.

As was customary, Martin didn't pick up until she was about to admit defeat and hang up.

'Yeah?'

'Martin, it's Mel. How was school?'

'Mm, fine.'

'I'm just leaving work, do you need a lift back or-?'

'Nah.'

'Sure? All right. Are you packed for Mum's?'

'Erm… S'all right, I can do it later,' he replied. She could faintly hear the music from the earphones he would still have in and be half listening to.

'Do it when you get home. We're setting off early tomorrow.'

'All right! I've got other stuff to do first.'

'Oh, really? Call of Duty? Martin, I can read you like a book,' Amelia said exasperatedly, 'Go pack and I'll see you tomorrow, all right?'

'Mm.'

'Oh, and remember to-'

'Yep. I've gotta go, bye,' he said hurriedly, ending the call. Amelia pulled her earpiece off with a sigh. She knew he hated her telling him what to do, it was a habit of a lifetime that she wasn't sure she would ever get over, he would always be her baby brother to feel responsible for, when their parents failed to live up to their roles. She had half a mind to send Martin down to visit their mother without her. She hadn't spoken to her mother for two months and knew any forced civility would break down within an hour in each other's company, sooner if the husband was there. If she didn't go, Martin would have to get the train and she didn't fully trust him to manage to reach London by himself. Despite being fourteen years old, he was far too easily distracted by his phone or iPod for Amelia's liking and she would rather be sure he was safe than spend her time fretting over him, even if it meant a weekend with her mother. Besides, Martin didn't see their mother enough as it was.

As she left the city and increased her speed, the car thundered passed rain soaked fields and she could see in the distance a woman standing at the side of the road with two children, trying to flag down a car. If it hadn't been for the pouring rain she would have carried on, but she slowly pulled to a stop beside them, thinking that if they needed a lift it was better they got one from a police officer and not some weirdo.

'Where are you heading?' she asked, winding down the window of the passenger side. The woman was holding a thick suede coat tightly around herself and shivering in the pouring rain.

'My phone's knackered and I need to call the police!' she shouted over the noise of the traffic, leaning into the car through the window.

'I'm a police officer, ma'am, what's the problem?' Amelia asked, taking in the woman's faint scent of woodsmoke and patchouli oil.

'We're pitched up by an old farm over that way,' she began, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder, 'The kids were playing by the camp and they've found a body. Think someone better come and take a look.'

'All right. Hop in and I'll come up,' Amelia suggested. The two small children jumped into the back of the car after Amelia hastily shoved the files in the boot of the car. She had left work early in the hope that it would give her enough time to get everything done that evening. She thought she might as well have stayed at CID.

'What's your name?'

'Willow,' she replied. _Of course it is_, Amelia thought to herself.

'DS Wells,' Amelia said, offering a hand as the car trundled up an uneven country lane.

'You're a bit young for sergeant,' Willow commented.

'Only just sergeant,' Amelia admitted with a smile, 'Three month ago. So, how long have you been camped at the farm?'

'All of four hours… and it is legal,' Willow added defensively.

'Didn't say it wasn't.'

'It's the last thing we need. Find a good site to pitch up at, no one to complain about us being there, away from the main road so no police to move us on, then these find a bloody body,' she groaned.

'One of them?' Amelia asked, nodding to the boy and girl in the back of the car. Willow nodded.

'It's all the rain we've had. Usually find it disturbs the earth,' she explained as they came to the end of the lane, at the mouth of a large farmyard. The farmhouse nearby was boarded up and looked like it hadn't been lived in for years.

'Do you know who owns the farm?' Amelia asked Willow as they climbed out of the car.

'S'far as I know, no one. Heard it was a good place to pitch up from some friends we met at the solstice. We're up here,' she said, leading the way across the yard, flanked by the two children as Amelia pulled her raincoat on and followed them. Willow and the children made their way up the hill a lot faster than Amelia, their sturdy walking boots not prone to sinking into the thick mud as Amelia's office shoes.

At the crest of the hill several cars and wagons were parked, surrounding the beginnings of a large bonfire, around which several travellers were huddled. None spoke to Amelia, eyeing her suspiciously as she approached them.

'Hello, I'm Sergeant Wells,' she smiled, trying to appear as warm as possible, 'Willow said that a body has been found. Would someone be able to show me where?' she asked as Willow and the children disappeared into a van to dry off. Another boy nodded and motioned for Amelia to follow him.

They carried on along the top of the hill to a point where a scarecrow stood. The boy stopped a few metres from it and simply pointed, unwilling to go any closer. Amelia braced herself and began to slowly approach the scarecrow, or rather the remains of it. Like the rest of the farm, it had fallen into disrepair and was now merely a few rags flapping in the wind of several posts of wood. She spotted the bones as she drew closer to the scarecrow and felt a wave of relief; she had been expecting a half rotted or mutilated corpse, the smell of which she had never forgotten from her first murder as a PC. She guessed the children had been playing with the scarecrow and had dislodged the foundations anchoring it into the soil. She stooped to examine the bones closer. They were unmistakeably a human hand. Using a nearby stick, she began to scrape mud away from the hand, exposing the bone of a forearm. Amelia dropped the stick, satisfied that the hand and arm probably were attached to the rest of the body.

'Sorry,' she murmured to the bones, brushing the tip of a finger bone with her own hand, marvelling at the difference between the two and overwhelmed with a sudden sadness. That hand had been someone once, had lived and laughed and loved… and had been left to rot on some bleak hill, long forgotten. She didn't think anyone deserved that.

She straightened up and made her way back to the boy still waiting for her. She guessed he was about the same age as Martin.

'What's your name?' she asked.

'Scott,' he replied, 'What're you going to do about it?' he asked, jerking his head towards the remains.

'I'll radio back to CID and some more officers will come up and they'll make sure the crime scene is secured.'

'Crime scene? No one's done anything, why's it a crime scene?' he asked worriedly.

'Don't panic, it's a crime scene because someone's buried a body up there, probably to make sure no one finds it. Can you do a job for me? I want you to go back to the camp and make sure no one else goes near the body, got it?' she asked.

'No one wants to,' Scott replied, 'Dad said it's got bad vibes, that body.'

'I expect you would too, if you were stuck on this hill day in day out.'

By the time she left the farm, it was just gone seven and beginning to grow dark. Forensics had removed the remains and taken them back to their labs and would begin to excavate the area surrounding the gravesite the next day to see if more was buried up there. Amelia had watched as one forensic scientist had lifted a skull out of the grave with a sharp intake of breath.

'Looks like point blank range, poor sod,' he said, turning the skull in his hand to look at the smashed side of the face.

Statements had been taken from the travellers who had first discovered the body, made all the more difficult as the arrival of more police officers had made them even more silent and unwilling to talk. There had been talk of moving the travellers on, but no sooner had the idea been mentioned, it was quashed; they already had enough to do with the grave, especially now one of forensics had unearthed what she thought was a warrant card, though did not want to risk damaging it by attempting to prise it open until it was safely in the lab. In addition, some felt the travellers would be able to provide some sort of unpaid security by camping near the site, particularly as the press had turned up about an hour before Amelia set off.

'We'll leave them up here. It's not worth the hassle,' the inspector explained to Amelia and the other sergeant present.

'The press or the gypos?' the other sergeant asked, nodding to a photographer trying to get a shot inside the tent.

'I think you're supposed to call them travellers now,' Amelia said quietly. She had watched Willow and the girl who found the grave, now identified as her daughter Hope, lay a solitary flower outside the tent that now covered the grave.

'They're not going to go without a fuss and the press'll have a field day if they can work a witness to police brutality directed towards some hippies.'

When she reached home the telephone was ringing repeatedly and alerted her that she already had two messages left. Assuming it was Rob wanting to speak to her before she left for the weekend, Amelia answered and barely suppressed a groan when she heard her mother's voice at the other end of the line.

'Hello, Mel, I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon,' Claire scolded.

'I've been at work. What is it?'

'Melly, there's no need to be like that. I wanted to know if you and Martin wanted to come down this evening, rather than tomorrow? What about that?' Claire suggested.

'Mum, even if we left now, we wouldn't get to you until midnight. Besides, I'm going to Rachel's hen party tonight. Why do you want us to come down tonight? Is Tim out?'

'No, Tim is not out, and he would like to see both of you as well. No, it's just Tim's booked this little getaway for us and, well… the flight is on Sunday morning and-'

'Oh, you're busy? Mum, Martin hasn't seen you for three months, now he's only going to see you for one day-?'

'More if you come down tonight-'

'You and Tim have just come back from Ibiza! Why the hell do you need another holiday?' Amelia shouted.

'Don't start with me, Amelia. I've had a difficult week,' Claire sniffed, 'I've been clearing out your father's house and it's all very stressful down here. Tim and I-'

'What d'you mean you've cleared out Dad's house? And has _he_ been in Dad's house?' Amelia snapped.

'Yes, Tim's been helping me-'

'I don't want him in Dad's house,' Amelia said flatly, knowing how petty she sounded. Claire was silent for a few moments.

'Tough. And I don't see why it's upsetting you so much. You know, before he died you barely wanted anything to do with your father. You didn't speak to him for years after he left-'

'_You_ didn't have to leave as well,' Amelia retorted. She could hear the jingle of the many bangles her mother wore as she squirmed in her seat.

'You are a spiteful, _spiteful_ girl sometimes, Amelia. I don't know what I've done to deserve this.'

'That's the problem.'

'Well, maybe it's best if Martin comes down by himself this weekend.'

'Fine. I'll drive him down tomorrow morning,' Amelia said coolly, 'Now, is that all? Only I've got stuff to do this evening.'

'Oh, Melly, listen, I didn't mean that, but you've-'

'Bye, Mum,' she said quietly and cut her mother off. She slammed down the phone and poured herself a glass of wine in the kitchen, forcing herself not to cry. An argument with her mother didn't usually provoke tears, not even when she knew her mother had made a fair point. She knew that it was stupid to feel possessive of him and feel closer to her father after his death, but couldn't help herself. It was easier than to dwell on the fact that he had been quietly dying for the better part of a year before any of them found out, by which time it was almost too late to do anything about, except visit him in hospital during the last two weeks. Claire had been no help at that time; she had told Amelia she found it too distressing and Tim had whisked her away for a fortnight in Ibiza, their favoured holiday destination made all the more romantic as the place they had met after Claire had left. In the end it was left to Amelia, with the help of Rob and her aunt, to organise her father's funeral, wondering how she had ended up responsible for the celebration of the life of a man whom she found very little to celebrate. Not long after Martin's first birthday, their father had walked out. Amelia had been eleven and, whilst he had been at work rather than home more often than not, the permanence of his absence had been frightening. Several months later Claire had sent Amelia and Martin to stay with their father's sister in Manchester, promising Amelia that she would see them again soon, she just needed time to sort herself out then everything would go back to normal. Except it hadn't; it was months before they saw Claire again, and then she said she still wasn't ready to be with them, but promised she would be soon. This had continued until Amelia was sixteen, when all involved assumed that Amelia and Martin's residence with their aunt would be permanent. Despite assurances from her aunt that it was problems between her parents that had caused their separation, Amelia couldn't help but feel that both parents had divorced her and her brother instead of each other. Whilst their father had not visited as often, at least this was more honest than their mother; he first tried to contact them when Amelia was fourteen, but it was not until she was nineteen that she finally consented to see him, and that never progressed beyond several awkward meetings between the three of them.

The last time she and Claire had spoken was an argument over what they would do with her father's house and its contents. Whilst Claire had wanted to throw everything into a skip, Amelia had insisted that it waited until she and Martin could sort through it. Now she was confident her mother and Tim would have cleared the house indiscriminately.

'How am I supposed to be a sexy teacher?' Nicole demanded in lieu of a greeting when Amelia arrived at her flat to get ready with her.

'I suppose you just go for a blouse and some glasses and just try to look… stern,' Amelia shrugged.

'Stern?'

'Like you're… going to punish someone for being, ah, naughty.'

'Bloody Rachel! It's the most stupid theme for a party… I mean, for you and her it's all right,' Nicole complained, gesturing at Amelia as they both vied for space in front of the mirror to apply makeup.

'Yeah, I just took the handcuffs from work,' Amelia admitted, adjusting the belt they were attached to and straightening her plain black dress in the mirror. She had been too busy to really work on an outfit, so hoped Rachel would be appeased by the token gesture of the handcuffs.

'Exactly, but for everyone else, it's just a bit… boring. All I want to do is go out and have fun with my friends, without inviting every creep there to touch.'

'Then don't dress up,' Amelia sighed, pouring herself another glass of wine, 'Tell Rachel you're protesting on the grounds of female liberation, that her hen party offends you, as a feminist.'

'I wish. Just promise you won't make us do anything stupid like this when you and Rob get married.'

'No, we'll stay at home and get trashed in our pyjamas,' Amelia laughed, picking up the remote to switch off the television Nicole had left on whilst the got ready before they headed out. The news at ten was just recapping the day and before she could turn it off she saw a flash of a farm. Paying closer attention, she watched as the news report confirmed the body to be that of a police officer's an Amelia wondered which idiot had let that slip so early on.

'Eurgh, that's grim,' she heard Nicole mutter behind her.

'I know. I was there earlier,' she replied, 'It's sad. I wonder if anyone missed him?'

'Actually I was talking about the tequila,' Nicole said, holding up two shot glasses and switching the television off, 'Right, let's go out and get wasted,' she added as she and Amelia knocked back their shots.

At two o'clock, Amelia was ready to call it a night. She bid goodbye to Rachel and the others, still dancing and drinking with no sign of stopping anytime soon.

'What? You're going home?' Rachel shouted above the music in the club, 'Why?'

'I have to get a taxi back!' Amelia yelled back, straightening Rachel's tiara for her.

'Stay at mine tonight! It's fine!'

'No, I'm going to Mum's tomorrow! I'll see you soon, don't put any pictures online until I've had a look!' she smiled, giving Rachel and the others a brief hug.

'You sure you don't want to wait and get a taxi with us?' Nicole asked.

'Sure. I'll see you in a bit. Have fun, girls!' she smiled, waving goodbye to them as she made her way out of the club into the cold night air. The warmth from the club quickly left her and she was shivering as she waited for a taxi to turn up.

'Nice cuffs!' one of a gang of boys shouted as they exited the club for a cigarette, smacking her backside to the laughter of his friends.

'Wouldn't mind being tied up by you!' he laughed when she ignored the wolf-whistles, 'Where're you going, gorgeous?'

'Home.'

'D'you want me to come with you, babe?' he asked, towering over her even in her heels. She waved her hand to clear the waft of smoke around them, the combination of the smell and the number of shots she had drunk making her nauseous.

'I'm all right. Thanks for the offer though,' she replied, rocking on the balls of her feet, desperate to take of the stilettos as soon as she got in the taxi.

'Oh, darling, you're breaking my heart. We could have some fun with those cuffs…'

'Sorry, sweetheart, taken,' she said firmly, waggling her left hand at him to show her engagement ring.

'Aw, no fair! See ya, blondie!' he yelled as his friends stubbed out their cigarettes and headed down the street towards the kebab shop.

'I'm going to get out here,' Amelia told the taxi driver when they had been stuck at the same spot for the past twenty minutes, rummaging through her handbag for some cash.

'You sure, sweetheart? We're only a couple of streets away,' he replied, glancing back at her in the rear view mirror.

'Yeah, and I can walk it in a couple of minutes,' she explained, peering out her window again. The traffic showed no signs of moving for a while yet, she could see an ambulance and hear the ringing siren of a police car. She thought it would be best to go the back way home, rather than risk staggering past some of her colleagues. She knew they would never let her live it down if they caught her tottering home attached to a pair of handcuffs.

She clambered out of the taxi and steadied herself against a wall when she was out of sight of the traffic. The rocking motion of the taxi had not helped her nausea and she had been afraid she would be forced to vomit into her handbag for not the first time. Instead, she found the cold night soothed her headache and stopped her heaving. Slipping off her shoes, she stepped softly down a side street, the icy ground soon numbing her aching toes. She thought longingly of the warm bed she would be able to collapse into. Maybe she and Martin could set off a little later this morning? She could do with a few extra hours' sleep, she needed it to sleep off the drink. She had purposefully not drunk as much as she usually would on a night out, knowing that she had a long drive the next day, but still enough to cloud her vision slightly. Anyway, setting off later and therefore arriving later would serve her mother right. If she was so eager to say goodbye to them again, then surely she wouldn't care about seeing a little less of them in the first place. _But what about Martin?_ she reasoned with herself, _maybe she's right, maybe I am a spiteful bitch_…

Lost in her thoughts and fumbling in her handbag to finds the keys to her flat, Amelia didn't notice a stranger step out from a narrow side street until he had clamped his arm around her. Before she could draw breath to scream he crushed a cloth to her mouth. She was fighting to breath, but he was holding her too tightly, dragging her backwards into the alleyway and she felt the heels of her feet graze the broken glass and stones on the ground and could taste something chemical on the cloth. She was going to be sick, she _was _sick; with a heave and a retch, she inhaled more of the chemical taste of the cloth and everything fell to blackness.

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**Thanks for reading! Chapter 3 should be up within a few days (never expect this level of productivity from me again)...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Phew, another chapter already. It's amazing what you can accomplish instead of being productive in real life...**

* * *

Gene Hunt woke with a sharp, shuddering breath. He was sprawled on his back in an empty room. He took another deep breath, his heart hammering as though he had just run a race. He was frightened; he must have been having a nightmare, for the fear was disappearing as rapidly as the dream had, now he could remember none of it. It must have been an awful dream to fill him with such relief to feel his chest rise and fall as his heart pumped and his lungs inhaled and exhaled.

_I am alive_. Had there ever been any doubt? He lay still for a moment, revelling in his simply being. He flexed his fingers and could feel his clammy palms sticking to the wooden floorboards. He propped himself up on his elbows, before sitting up fully. The tranquillity that he had momentarily experienced was broken as the worst headache he had ever known crashed over him. He sank backwards to the floor, a groan of pain involuntarily escaping him. It felt as though his head was caught in a vice, squeezing around his temples. He saw stars burst behind his closed eyelids as the pain peaked, and then slowly retreated. He needed an aspirin or two, maybe a whole bottle, and a drink, definitely a drink. He sat up tentatively, clutching his head as though if he did not the headache that was beginning to peak below the surface once again would split his skull.

When he got to his feet, his vision blurred and he staggered. He leaned against one of the cool walls of the room and shut his eyes. How much had he drunk the night before? As he opened his eyes and surveyed the room he found himself in, he began to remember why he had woken in such a state of fear. _Where am I?_ He didn't recognise this room. He was sure he had never been here before. How had he got there?

'Jesus,' he whispered, filled with an almost disgusted awe at how much he must have drunk to lead him to a place he had no recollection of, with no memory of how he got there. For he was certain this room was not part of the farmhouse; the rooms there had been large but dingy and dark, whereas this room was small and light. However, how it was so light when there were neither windows nor visible lamp, Gene did not know, and though this room was empty, it did not show the same signs of neglect as those at the farmhouse had done; there was no dust, no mouldering floorboards or peeling wallpaper. Everything was scrubbed pure and white. The fear gripped him again. How far from the farmhouse had he strayed? How long had he been gone? He made to check his watch, but found it was curiously absent from his wrist, the removal another thing to add to his list of events he did not recall. Already, the events he could remember prior to waking up in this room felt as though they had occurred a lot longer ago than the day before. What if they had? Once again, he wondered how long he had been in this unfamiliar room.

Trying not to panic, he straightened up and made his way towards a door he had not noticed before at the end of the room. He promised himself that once he was outside, he would be able to get his bearings and make his way back to the farmhouse, he had always had a good sense of direction, it was one of the few things he had excelled in during national service. He felt his way to the door, leaning against the wall for support with his eyes closed, the brightness of the room threatening to break the wave of pain building up again. He opened his eyes when his hand made contact with the cold metal handle of the door. He took another deep breath, again basking in the wonderful sensation that was breathing, why had he never appreciated it before?

_I am alive_. He was also afraid. He rested his head on the door, suddenly conscious that there was something on the other side of the door. He tried to listen for movement or a voice, but received only silence and the awareness of a presence beyond the door. It seemed to push against the door, yet he had the strongest feeling that it would have to be he who opened the door and this presence was waiting for him to do so.

He felt something drip onto his hand still wrapped around the door handle. Expecting it to be a drip of water from some sort of leak, he was startled to glance down and see a black droplet resting on his knuckles. He wiped it away and felt a tremor of horror when the back of his hand was smeared scarlet. There were more flecks of it on the door, tracks of red trickling down that contrasted with the whitewashed wooden door. He had never been superstitious or given much thought to bad omens, but the sight of this confirmed to him that he needed to be as far away from this door as possible. He didn't know what lay beyond this room, but was now certain that no good would come of opening that door.

He spun around, sure there must be another way to get out of this room. He thought he spied another doorway, but felt his heart sink when he realised it was just a mirror hung on the opposite wall. He approached it cautiously, at least it would be better than being near that door, and as he drew nearer, gave a yell of horror at the reflection that confronted him. His uniform was plastered in mud as though he had been rolling around on the ground, and as his eyes travelled back up his body, the muck coating his uniform paled in comparison to the blood. There was so much blood. He had never seen so much in his life; it covered half his face, was matted into his hair and stained the collar of his shirt a gaudy crimson. His hands trembled as he moved them over the left side of his head, trying to locate the source of the bleeding, but afraid of what he might find. Nothing. He didn't know what he was expecting, half of his head missing?

_I am alive_. Despite the blood, despite the pain in his head, he was alive. What the hell had happened? Had he fought with someone? And where the hell had Morrison been? That was right; Morrison. The police. The coronation. It was as though all these things had ceased to exist within the confines of this room. In fact, the world could have ended beyond that door and he would have been completely unaware of it.

'Come on, think!' he told his terrifying reflection in frustration. The mingled scent of the damp earth on his clothes and the sickly metallic taste of the blood around his mouth made him want to retch.

There had been a gun. The smell of the earth had jogged a memory; lying on the cold wet ground, staring down the barrel of a gun. But he wasn't hurt. All the evidence pointed to the contrary; whilst he was covered in blood, his beating heart betrayed the simple truth.

'No,' he said with forced calm to his double, watching him worriedly from behind the glass. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the picture of the shotgun that had seared its image into his mind, and trying even harder to block out the blast of the gun, a new recollection that was now presenting itself.

'No,' he repeated firmly. It hadn't happened. That must have been part of the nightmare he was having. Except- generally- he did not wake from dreams of lying in the dirt actually covered in dirt and blood. But if it had happened, if it really was a memory, if this earth and blood was as real as it appeared to him, then waking should not have been an option. The sound of that gun firing should have signalled something worse than a bad dream.

'No,' he murmured, 'Please, no.'

He sank to the floor in the corner of the room, trying to piece together what had happened so that he might find a loophole with which to save himself from the evidence mounting against him. He had gone into the farmhouse, slept, gone to investigate noises in the kitchen… then what? He had kicked the kitchen door open. Then he had woken in this room. Was that it? How could the actions of a few moments dictate the rest of his life, or the end of it? He was struck by the overwhelming unfairness of it; everything had been taken from him because he had been doing his job, unlike Morrison, who was probably sleeping off his drink somewhere. Gene drew he knees to his chest, trying to crush the howl of rage building up in him, feeling as small and helpless as Will… and Will; he needed to see him on his birthday, give him his present. He had made so many promises to Will, what he would buy Will out of his first wages, things they would do together, things that would have to wait until Will was older. Will would never be older now, not to him at least, he was lost to him, as he was to Will. Had anyone noticed he was missing? If they did notice, would they even find him? He doubted it; a moment's recklessness on his part had passed him out of existence.

'What are you doing here?'

Gene had almost forgotten the sound of a human voice and wondered if he had imagined it. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there for; it may have only been a few minutes, or several days, he had no way of knowing. After finding that repeatedly opening and closing his eyes had not yielded the desired effect of waking him from this nightmare he had given up, hoping that if he shut his eyes and slept, then maybe when he woke it would be waking completely. He lifted his head out of his arms to find a dark haired man standing over him with a mocking smile and quizzical look from behind horn-rimmed glasses.

'_What_ are you doing here?' the stranger repeated, frowning at him.

'I- I've been shot,' Gene whispered. The stranger gave a short laugh.

'You know you can't stay here, don't you?' the stranger informed him, with that same sardonic smile that instantly annoyed Gene. He held out a hand to pull Gene to his feet.

'At least, I think I have been. There- there was a gun-'

'Oh, yes?'

'And then… then-'

'Then what?'

'Now I'm here.'

'You shouldn't be here.'

'Where am I?' Gene asked, beginning to feel increasingly irritated. The stranger shook his head sadly.

'It's over. It's all over for you now.'

'Can't I-? I mean, isn't there anything I can do?' Gene asked desperately. He could see his agonised expression reflected in the stranger's glasses. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with a sigh.

'I could… Ah, I don't know.'

'What?'

'I might be able to… help.'

'How?' Gene demanded.

'Well, _help_ might be a little strong, but-'

'Look, I haven't got time to play riddles in the bloody dark with you! If you can, offer your helping hand. If not, I'll work it out myself,' Gene snapped. The stranger smirked.

'Haven't you already worked it out? You stupid _boy_. What's done is done.'

Gene was silent for a minute, searching the stranger's face for answers. He was dressed in a bland grey suit, ironed and starched to within an inch of its life, shoes shined so fervently that Gene could see his face in them. This man looked like he might have once been the type of boy that Gene would have liberated some sweets or a toy car from when he had been at school, always so good-naturedly that they dared not protest, of course. This man also looked like the type who would remember that for so long afterwards, for years after Gene would have forgotten it even happened. He was glowering outright now. Despite the insipidness and reservation of his appearance, Gene could feel an anger radiating off this man and was sure if he took a step closer he would be burnt by the hatefulness of it.

'Who are you?' he asked uncertainly.

'James Keats,' he replied, offering Gene his hand. Gene noticed his own sweaty palm was grimy with mud and dried blood.

'I can't… undo anything- but there is hope. You can still have… life. It's not too late for you- if you come with me,' Keats suggested, gesturing to a door Gene was certain had not been there before. Whilst the offer was tempting, he couldn't shake the look of complete loathing James Keats had given him mere moments ago and the sharp hiss of his voice after Gene had snapped at him. It was made all the more unnerving by the amiable smile Keats was giving him now.

'Who are you?' Gene repeated. He saw the smile slip momentarily as Keats' lip curled.

'I already told you, Hunt. Now, let's go.'

'Erm… No, I don't think I will.'

'And what's the alternative? What, you think if you stay here long enough, you'll wake up in your own bed, Mummy making your breakfast and telling you it was all a bad dream?'

'How do you know my name?'

'What?' Keats spat.

'Maybe you're right, Jim-'

'_James._'

'Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe this is just some extended nightmare. I think I'll stay here and find out.'

'I told you, you can't stay here,' Keats snapped, seizing Gene's upper arm. Gene glanced at Keats' white knuckled grip on his arm and was forcibly reminded of his and Stephen's last argument. He raised his chin insolently, giving Keats a slow, contemptuous once-over.

'Get off me.'

'You have to leave.'

'I said, let go. I'm a police officer and-'

'Oh, really?' Keats sneered, 'Not anymore.'

'Well, forgive me if I don't take your word for it,' Gene replied, wrenching his arm free and taking a step backwards. At this sudden jerky movement, he felt the pain in his head wash over him again and staggered as his vision faded to blackness.

'What are you doing?' Keats repeated again.

'Leave me alone. I'm… I'm a police officer,' Gene muttered as he felt his knees buckle.

'_You've_ caused this! I hope you're proud of yourself-'

'Oh, you know me, Jim, my humility is unparalleled… Don't sit up too fast, Hunt, that nose of yours is already overworked as it is.'

Gene had opened his eyes in dismay to find that the ceiling he was staring at had not miraculously become the ceiling of his own bedroom. He raised his head and discovered he was lying on a desk in the same room. He was no longer shocked at the ever expanding inventory of the room, though was somewhat more curious at the appearance of another stranger. He swung his legs off the desk until he was sitting up to face an older man.

'Good night, was it?' he asked Gene sympathetically.

'What?'

'I find more often than not that a night out which doesn't end with looking a little worse for wear is a night wasted. By that standard, you must've had a bloody good time,' he commented to Gene, nodding at his filthy uniform.

'I thought you stank like a brewery,' Keats added dispassionately. As a force of habit, Gene massaged his temples to soothe his headache and was surprised to find that all the blood had gone.

'Yes, I thought you better get cleaned up,' the stranger explained, noticing Gene's confusion, 'Worried you might've been hurt, see. Luckily for you, it was just a nosebleed. Probably got a smack round the face, happens to the best of us… Now come on, work to do,' he said, rising from his chair and crossing the room, beckoning for Gene to follow. Gene did not move, trusting this new stranger no further than he trusted Keats.

'So I was drunk?' he asked, hardly daring to hope, 'That's it? I was drunk and you found me in here?' he confirmed, relief washing over him so wonderful he almost laughed at himself. Waking in a strange room with a hangover and his first thought had been that he was dead! He looked forward to recounting this to his friends.

'It's not like you were difficult to spot, were you? Passed out on my floor. Still, can't begrudge you a bit of celebrating. You earned it.'

'I suppose fagging after Morrison for a week is an achievement,' Gene conceded.

'Well, the only person you're going to be fagging after now is me,' the stranger assured him, steering him towards the door Gene had been so reluctant to pass through. Now, instead of a singular presence on the other side of it, he could hear the murmur of voices and a thrum of activity. Gene stepped away from the stranger, frowning slightly.

'You?'

'Detective Superintendent Hale,' he smiled genially, 'That's DI Keats, but I expect he's already told you so.'

'Oh. I… erm, I think I'm in the wrong place… Sir,' Gene replied, mortified. He had no idea how he had managed to stumble so far away from the farm. The chance of the room he had chosen to pass out in being the office of a superintendent with CID was so inconceivably slim that Gene wouldn't have believed it. If he had believed in God he would have imagined Him to be hooting with laughter at his expense.

'Yes, you're in my office.'

'No, you don't understand. I was working with Morrison- PC Morrison- I'm supposed to stick with him for a few weeks at least-'

'I'm sure young Morrison will cope without you. Now, as much a relief it must be to get out of that uniform, you get it cleaned up again so some other poor sod can have it.'

'Wait- wait! What?' Gene stammered, with the sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation. It was too perfect, just his luck that the superintendent whose office he found himself in turned out to be a mad bastard.

'For Christ's sake- Your uniform. Someone else can have it now you don't need it,' Hale said slowly and deliberately.

'Of course I still need it!' Gene replied incredulously. Hale heaved a massive sigh and shook his head, drawing something from an inside pocket and handing it to Gene.

'Dear God, I dread the future of the force if this is supposed to be one of its bright new minds,' he commented to Keats, who simply shook his head, regarding Gene with a look of deep disapproval. Gene held the warrant card limply, falling back into the nightmare he had fleetingly believed he had escaped from.

'This isn't… it can't be true.'

'How much did you drink last night?' Hale marvelled, 'Go back to your desk and try not to bleed, vomit or expel anything that isn't a nice, solid lead for me, DC Hunt.'

For that was who the warrant card identified him as. He opened and closed it several times, blinked at it, and still it remained wrong. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, hoping that if he could find his original warrant card, he would be able to prove Hale and Keats wrong. His pocket was empty.

'Found it in your jacket. We didn't have any idea who you were.'

'This is wrong. I was PC yesterday.'

'Yes, and today is your first day as a DC.'

'I've only been PC for a week! You've got it all wrong, I shouldn't make CID for another few years.'

'Well, lucky old you. We've been expecting you,' Hale explained.

'Expecting me?'

'Our previous DC's moved on- promoted- we need a new one.'

'_Need_ is debateable… especially when the first we see of our new DC is him lying in a stupor,' Keats added contemptuously. Gene sprang up from the desk, having had more than he could take. He was so close to hitting the smug look off Keats' face and even Hale's understanding smile was beginning to irritate him. Both seemed to be treating his confusion as an unfortunate aftereffect of the night before, whereas Gene was convinced something very wrong was going on.

'I'm not listening to this. I have to leave,' he told them flatly, praying that he would be able to find Morrison sooner than Hale got in touch with his station to mention their encounter. He wondered how well respected Hale was. He certainly had the power to, but would Hale want Gene punished for making a spectacle of himself in his station? _I'm not trying to make enemies_, Gene thought bitterly; first Morrison's wife, now breaking into Hale's office, how long until he got the boot from the force?

He pushed the door open and found himself standing at the edge of a deathly silent office, several pairs of eyes on the filthy officer standing before them. Ignoring them, he crossed the room to another, smaller office and flung open one of the small windows to see where in the city he had found himself. He was hit by a gust of the unseasonal cold wind that had arrived just in time for the coronation, much to everyone's disgust. Oddly, the street he was looking down on was not decked out in Union Jacks as nearly every other street had been.

'I think we've had enough fresh air,' Hale snapped, slamming the window shut again, 'Not that you'll get any out there. Bloody London's ground to a halt and we're still working through it. Typical, innit?' he sighed, pulling up a chair at the desk and lighting himself a cigarette, 'Will someone bring me my paper?' Hale yelled out to the office. A secretary hurried in and handed the day's newspaper to Hale, scowling at Gene when she caught him admiring her backside.

'Maybe they would if they smoked as much,' Gene replied, 'It didn't ruin yesterday at least. Shouldn't they be better prepared this time around?'

'This time?' Hale repeated, 'Never seen the like before. Bloody weather even made the papers, if you can believe it,' he said, handing Gene the newspaper after quickly riffling through the first few pages. Patrolling with Morrison yesterday had meant that they had missed the majority of the coronation, bar the occasional snatched glimpses from someone's television screen as they walked their beat. Catching up through the newspaper wouldn't be the same, but he would have to make do. He was stunned when the front page of the newspaper contained no hint whatsoever that the coronation had even happened. Neither did the second page, nor the page after, or even after that. Gene turned indignantly back to the front of the paper to see what rubbish local gazette he was reading. Instead, he found he was staring at the front page of the Times. The date in the top corner caught his eye.

'It's- The date's wrong,' he frowned.

'What's that?'

'The paper's got the wrong date, look,' he elaborated, handing the paper back to Hale. As he took it back and checked the date, Hale's frown grew to match Gene's.

'No, it's not.'

'Sir, it says-'

'December 5th 1952. Today.'

'No, that's… come on, it's- it was the Queen's coronation.'

'Oh, yeah. Of course, then she made me Prime Minister. I remember now,' Hale said, snapping his fingers in mock recognition, 'Coronation's not going ahead for a few months yet, Hunt.'

'I was there yesterday. It's June,' Gene said, laughing nervously and unsure whether he was meant to play along with the joke.

'Right, have you been outside in the past few days, don't you think it's a little cold for June?'

'Yes, but-'

'You know what? Go home. We can await the arrival of our DC for another day. You're no good to me in this state… Says your address here,' Hale said, lifting a form from one of the many filing cabinets in his office, 'Normally the minimum I require from my team is that they can find their own way home. However, I think I'll make an exception today.'

Gene had never known a dream like it. He was sure that this was a dream he was trapped in and decided that instead of arguing with Hale, he would just have to ride it out and accept what he was told. The walk from CID to his new residence was only a few minutes' walk, but it was as bitterly cold as it Gene remembered December being. He kept stopping to check the date on newspapers outside shops or discarded in the street, all resolutely bearing the wrong date. One was floating in the middle of a puddle and he was fascinated by the shards of ice floating in the puddle, smashed beneath someone's boot earlier that morning. He had never had a dream so detailed as this, he could feel the cold air stinging against his face, smell the coal in the streets, feel his shoes scuffing against the pavement. Everything was as it should be, and yet completely wrong. Six months wrong to be exact. He spotted a large stone on the pavement and nudged it with his foot, half expecting it to vanish or remain where it was if it was all in his head. The stone rolled away, as it should have.

'Oi, I haven't got time to watch you playing in the street,' Hale snapped, 'This is you, isn't it?'

'If you say so,' Gene replied with a shrug, the house they stood outside was as unfamiliar as the rest of this place. Hale narrowed his eyes.

'Well, get some sleep. If you're not back at the station bright and early tomorrow, I'll kick your arse so hard you won't be able to sit until the bloody coronation,' Hale informed him, grinding the remains of his cigarette under his shoe and disappearing down an alleyway.

Gene trudged up the stone steps outside the house and patted his jacket. No key. Brilliant, the one thing missing from this all too perfectly imagined dream was the one thing he wanted. As he was considering whether smashing an imaginary window in would hurt, the front door opened and he was greeted by a woman in her fifties, wrapped in a housecoat.

'Are you the lodger?' she asked, peering at him expectantly. Gene looked the house up and down again. It was a tall, thin townhouse, more posh than anyone he knew owned, the closest anyone had come to one of these houses was Stuart's paper round when they were still children.

'Why not?' he sighed and forced a smile as he followed her into the house.

'I didn't realise you were a policeman!' she smiled back as she sized him up, 'I'll sleep safer knowing you're here. My name is Mrs Dewhurst and you are…?'

'Eugene Hunt.'

'Oh, that's nice. My husband wanted to meet you, if you wait here, I'll call-'

'No need, dear.'

Mr Dewhurst gave Gene a cold look and an unimpressed once-over, taking in the muddy uniform Gene had almost forgotten about, were it not for the uncomfortable damp of the uniform, chilled by the winter air.

'I… erm… had a bit of a fall,' Gene explained shamefacedly.

'Next time, you should probably use the back door,' Mr Dewhurst explained, ignoring Gene's proffered hand.

'I'll remember next time,' Gene forced himself to reply without a scowl.

'Your room is in the attic, so obviously you have to go through the rest of the house to get to it, but I would prefer for you to use the back stairs. You will stick to the hallways and staircases, is that understood? As a man of the law you will of course understand that you can't just have free rein of other people's property. I'll show you the room now. No need to trouble yourself anymore, dear,' Mr Dewhurst explained to his wife, beginning to ascend the stairs.

'Nice to meet you,' Gene called as she disappeared into the front room. He followed Dewhurst up three flights of stairs, noticing a pair of large green eyes vanish behind a closing door as they passed. Dewhurst unlocked a door at the top of the third flight of stairs and handed Gene the key, opening the door to reveal a sparsely furnished room. A single bed was pushed up against the furthest wall, with an armchair and wardrobe for company. On the other side of the room was a small stove and grimy sink. The sight of this room made Gene miss his own home even more than he already did.

'I've been using the room as storage, so you'll have to excuse the mess,' Dewhurst explained, gesturing to a pile of junk in one corner, 'That television never worked properly, couldn't get the damn thing started. I rather think the police should get onto this sort of thing, it's not right of folk to be swindled out of their money.'

'Not right at all,' Gene agreed.

'You have your own kitchen area and a sink. You can use our outside lavatory, _not_ the family bathroom, and when you need to use the bath tub, you will fetch it yourself from the cellar.

'Now I have certain rules that I wish to discuss with you,' Dewhurst began, although Gene doubted that there would be very much discussion to be had, 'This being a family home also means a need to respect that other people live here, so we cannot have you rolling in any time you please. Ten o'clock in the evening should be adequate. In addition to that, should you be going up and down the stairs, I would expect you to keep noise to a minimum. I have a young daughter and I do not wish for her studies to be disturbed by you banging and crashing about. Also, you are not to bring visitors up here, especially female visitors, is this understood?'

'The very thought,' Gene replied, testing the taps in an effort to block out Dewhurst's monologue, which he rather fancied the man had prepared beforehand.

'Thirdly, the rent is what it is and I don't wish for any discussion on the matter. This was a problem we had with our previous lodger and why he had to leave in the end. It will be paid weekly and no arguments. If you can't pay it, then you will leave me with no choice but to remove you.'

'I'll try not to spend it all in the pub,' Gene smiled. Dewhurst did not return the smile.

'Quite. Now, have you anything to add?' he asked Gene, who simply shook his head, glad his stay with the Dewhurst family would be short.

'Then I will leave you to better acquaint yourself with your room. I didn't see you bring any luggage in,' he added suspiciously.

'Turning over a new leaf,' Gene sighed, glancing around the empty room.

'If you say so,' Dewhurst replied, beginning to descend the stairs, 'Oh, and there will be no smoking up here,' he called from the bottom of the staircase, as though he had sensed Gene drawing a packet of cigarettes and his lighter from an inside pocket.

The room that was now his was larger than any room in his own home, its loneliness in stark contrast to the usual bustle and warmth of his parents' house. The warmth was even more lacking now that he had cracked open the one small window and was hanging out of it, occasionally waving his hand to waft the smoke from his cigarette away from the house. Flicking the stub of the cigarette into the guttering he closed the window with a snap and went to inspect the stove. It was empty, and he searched the room the see if there was anything he would be able to use in the absence of coal. He spied the junk in the corner of the room and saw that one of the legs of the desk that the television sat upon was splintered and deliberated as to whether Dewhurst would object to him making use of his broken possessions. He expected so, though when would Dewhurst ever come up to inspect the room? _What does it matter_, he scolded himself, _I'll be gone before he even notices_. He wondered with faint amusement where Dewhurst had sprung from in his memory.

As he dragged the armchair across the room, hoping he wasn't breaking the rule in regards to banging and crashing about, he heard the faintest crackle behind him. Assuming he had imagined it, he sat in the armchair, turned to face the stove, in the hope he numb fingers would soon be able to feel again.

'Have you seen Gene?'

He spun around at that, certain he was going mad when he turned to face the television to see Stuart's face on the small screen.

'Stuart! Stu! I'm here! I'm here! Can you hear me?' Gene shouted, knocking on the glass screen.

'Not since yesterday morning. Expect he came in after everyone else had gone to bed, then got up early for work. Or maybe he stayed with a friend,' he heard his mother's voice reply as the television screen panned out to show them both in their kitchen, with Nancy sitting at the table.

'Mam? Mam, I'm all right, I'm just… I don't know,' Gene called, tapping on the glass again. However, neither Stuart nor their mother sounded worried about him, merely curious.

'All right, tell him I'm at the pub when he comes in, if he wants to come find me,' Stuart suggested, kissing Nancy briefly and exiting the kitchen.

'I doubt he'll want to join Stu. You mark my words, he'll have his tea, and then go crawling up to bed if I know Gene,' Evelyn explained to Nancy, 'He'll be knackered.'

'Never too tired for a pint, Mam,' Gene murmured, tapping the screen lightly.

He was alive. No one was worried about him; no one was out looking for him. He was fine. He would soon wake up and be able to tell them about the strange dream he had been having. He turned the television around to examine it, only to find the set was just an empty shell, someone had removed the inner workings of the television. There was no way the television should work, all that remained was the screen and wooden casing.

'Will!' the Evelyn on the screen shouted out the backdoor. Gene quickly turned the television back around to see Will hurry into the kitchen, carrying the football they had played with two days before.

'Where's your brother?' Evelyn asked.

'Dunno.'

'Oh, he's late,' Evelyn sighed, checking the clock, 'Probably caught Stuart and stopped off for that pint,' she added to Nancy, 'Never mind, I'll put a plate aside for him. Will, go wash your hands.'

'I swear Stuart spends more time in pubs than he does at home,' Nancy replied ruefully.

'Oh, they all do, love. There's another woman in Stephen's life, and that's The Queen's Head,' Evelyn said sympathetically.

'I know, but I just- ooh.'

'What's the matter?'

'Baby's just… ah! I've never felt him do that before,' Nancy said, wincing in pain. Evelyn turned away from the stove at this, looking worried.

'Are you all right, darling?'

'I think I- oof. I think I should go to the hospital,' Nancy gasped, clutching her belly.

'Darling, are you sure he's not just kicking up a storm? They get restless towards the end…'

'It's never been like this. Doctor said I should go to the hospital if I thought anything was wrong.'

'All right, sweetheart, we'll go to the hospital if you're worried,' Evelyn said reassuringly, pulling on her coat and helping Nancy into hers, 'Will, Stuart should be back soon. If we're not back in an hour, go to the pub and tell him Nancy's gone to the hospital and he's to go there as quick as he can. I expect Gene'll be back before that, so just tell him and he'll sort everything out. Oh, and take tea off the stove, I'll deal with it when we're back.'

'When is he coming back?' Will asked, bouncing the ball agitatedly.

'Soon, love. We'll be back soon, be good!' Evelyn called s they disappeared out of the door.

'Don't worry, Will,' Gene whispered as the screen began to fade to blackness, 'I'll be back soon. I promise you I'll come back.'

* * *

**I wonder if anyone out there can help me? Can someone direct me to any website or even one of those old-fashioned books that's particularly informative on 50s living? Not big events and such, but like prices of things, attitudes to things like working women, literally ANYTHING to do with policing. **

**For the first time ever Google has let me down... :(**

******Again, I hope at least someone other than myself is enjoying this. Thank you if you are reading, you lovely people.**


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter has been a bitch to write, seriously having to do some serious wrenching to get it written down. So relieved it's finally done. Hope you enjoy...**

* * *

He was choking. Possibly drowning, he wasn't sure which, if he could just _breathe_ then he would be more certain. Whatever filled his mouth was grainy and damp, tasting musty and bitter, mingled with the taste of blood. Closing his mouth against it was impossible, everything was packed so tightly around him, he couldn't even flex his fingers… and they were so, so cold, almost numb to the point where he didn't know if he was even moving them. Not that he would have been able to see his hands; it was so dark and dank. He no longer felt they were truly part of him, neither did the rest of his body, he couldn't see that in the dark either. It was as though he was drifting away from his body, beginning to inhabit it only at the very edges, unsure where he ended and his surroundings began, but for the choking sensation at the back of his throat. He tried again to inhale, but this only filled his mouth further with earth as he tried to yell and claw at the cold darkness pressing on him. Only just aware that they were closed, he opened his eyes, hoping for some light and instead looked into the dark earth crushing the life out of him.

Then the pressure on his chest was gone and he was standing at the top of a hill, still so cold but gloriously alive. The wind whipping around him was bitter and the grassy bank was churned to dark earth from digging. The mud glistened wetly in the rain that was stinging his face and he could see from the red flecks on the few remaining blades of grass that blood saturated the patch of earth surrounding the scarecrow pegged unsteadily into the ground. Someone had drawn a smiling face on the sack for the head, except the ink had ran and been weathered away, leaving only the ghost of a smile. _That thing is beyond creepy_, Gene considered, eyeing the scarecrow warily, not daring to go any closer to it. Even so, he found his feet moving to approach it of their own will, aware that it was going to be necessary for him to touch the scarecrow. When he was little he and his friends had played a game where touching a fragment of shrapnel at a bombsite would prove you weren't a coward. This effigy carried the same talismanic property; if he was brave enough to touch the scarecrow, all would be well.

He reached out his hand to the scarecrow, mere inches away from it, but became suddenly aware that he was no longer alone on the hill. He turned hesitantly away from the scarecrow, reluctant to turn his back on it. The figure standing nearby was female, with blonde hair streaming down her back as she stared down at the farmhouse below them. She was barefoot, and he half wondered whether she was cold, noticing that the mud that clung to her feet was stained blood as the rest of the earth. He couldn't tell whether his presence was known to her and was cautious to approach, for fear of startling her. As he considered this, another alarming thought sprang to mind; would she even be able to see him? The eerie peacefulness that surrounded her suggested to him that, for all she knew, she was alone on the hill.

He shifted from one foot to the other and she turned her head slightly at this. Still with her back to him, he could see the profile of her face as she listened intently. He held out his hand to her, the need for contact with another person swift and overwhelming, and as he did so heard a rustling sound from behind. Assuming the wind was still blowing through the trees, he felt his blood freeze when he felt a skeletal hand wrap around his arm. He could feel nails biting into bicep and found his yell of horror caught in his throat when he realised the hand with its flesh rotted away, leaving its nails sharpened like claws, was attached to the scarecrow.

* * *

His heart was hammering when he rolled out of bed and hit the floor of his attic room. Panting, he disentangled himself from the bedsheets he had managed to wrap around himself in his sleep, explaining the claustrophobic, suffocating sensation he had dreamt about. He allowed the relief that it had only been a dream to wash over him and it was a few minutes before he realised he was not meant to have woken up in this room.

'Enough,' he said, rubbing his eyes furiously, 'I've had enough of this!' he shouted to anyone who would listen. When he removed his hands from his face he was shocked to find they were covered with blood again. He scrambled up from the bed and peered into the small mirror above the sink to find his face was smeared with dried blood again. He filled the sink and plunged his face into the icy water, wondering when and how hard he had hit his face. When he lifted his face from the basin, he found no mark upon his face, no cause for it to appear so spectacularly injured. Neither did his head feel as though it had been split open, but simply throbbed uncomfortably when he stood up.

'Stop it. Just stop,' he hissed as he aimed a kick at the armchair after scrubbing his face clean. He would have happily smashed the entire room were it not for the creeping doubt that it might actually be real, such was his frustration and disappointment. He had been certain that he was going to wake up on the sofa in his own home, the coronation not even begun and would be able to explain the extended dream he had been having to his family. Instead, he was curled up in a strange bed, feeling more lost and alone than he had ever felt, wondering whether he was completely mad or dead. He considered crying, but decided against it; it wouldn't relieve his anguish, all it would do was add to the already unattractive mix of dried blood, mud and sleep mussed hair that he already was. He stretched back onto the bed, squeezing his forearm, wondering whether the old adage of pinching oneself would indeed wake him up. All it got him was a sore arm.

The small clock hanging on the opposite wall had informed him it was six in the morning. He had wondered about going back to the station and having to listen to Hale convinced that nothing was unusual or out of sorts. He didn't want to go back, but just as he was reluctant to test his luck as to whether this room was real, he didn't wish to rile Hale any further.

Seized by sudden inspiration, he pulled on the spare shirt he had found hanging in the wardrobe of his room last night. The shirt was far too big, clearly meant for a man which a much bigger belly than him, but he didn't have time to care as he hurriedly buttoned it and galloped down the stairs. He had to find the room he had woken up in yesterday and go through the door he had been afraid to pass through. That door would lead him back to consciousness and if not there, then it would at least lead to knowing.

The CID station was silent when he let himself in and sprinted upstairs to find the corridor he had first woken in. He flung the correct door open, expecting to find himself in the same empty white room. Instead, he was confronted with a room overcrowded with filing cabinets and lit with a dim bulb, illuminating a single desk. This room was dark and musty and not at all as he remembered it. _Must be the wrong room_, he told himself, shutting the door with a snap and trying each successive door in the corridor, none revealing anything more than just a plain office. Thoroughly stumped, he entered the first room again and drew the blind down to block out the rest of the corridor. Using all his strength, he dragged one full filing cabinet several inches away from the wall before examining the wallpaper behind it. It was a bland cream and was good enough for Gene to convince himself that he had mistaken it for pure white the day before and to consider the possibility that they had moved their files into this room during the day whilst he slept in his attic room. Though unlikely, this was at least more probable than a disappearing room.

'Redecorating, are we?'

Gene barely heard Hale over the sound of yet another cabinet grinding across the floor as he pulled it away from the wall, still determined to find the door that was going to get him out of here. He let it go and the cabinet wobbled precariously.

'I give up. Where's the room I was in yesterday?' he sighed, breathing heavily, 'There was a door. Another one. This is where I thought it was… but this isn't right. The other room was white and empty, this one… this one isn't.'

'I'm pleased you're looking after our housekeeping, but shall we get back to some real policing?' Hale asked, sounding rather amused. Gene swept a pile of papers he had stacked on the desk to the floor in a fit of temper.

'No! This is all wrong! I'm supposed to be home in _June_, not now, not here! I've had enough. I want _you_ to give me some bloody answers!' he yelled. Hale gave a slow sigh and surveyed Gene with pity.

'It's concussion. I thought you'd sleep it off, but… maybe you should go back home-'

'That's not my home. I'm not going back there.'

'Well, by all means stay in here, like some records room fairy… you're living in fairyland enough already-'

'You've no idea. I don't need this shit, I'll find my own way back. How can you help me anyway? You don't know who I am,' Gene sighed wearily. Hale did not argue, but began to pick up the papers from the floor. Gene made his way back out to the corridor, wondering briefly whether the white room might have been on the floor above.

'Eugene Stephen Hunt. Born tenth of September 1933. Stephen's for your father, but Eugene was a character in a book your mother read when she was expecting you. She reads a lot. Of course, you hate that name. Stuart and William aren't fans of theirs either, but you really did draw the short straw there. You wouldn't ever begrudge your mother that; she's the one who's brought you into the world, looked after you ever since, for that you're willing to take whatever she gives you. You just wish that she had been reading a different book,' Hale called to him, his eyes scanning a sheet of paper in his hand, as Gene froze in the doorway. Hale lifted his gaze from the document and raised an eyebrow.

'I could go on but, then again, I don't know you from Adam, do I?' he said mockingly.

'How do you…? Who the hell are you?' he asked Hale quietly, both fascinated and perturbed by what else might be on the paper Hale was reading from. Hale gave him the same look of sympathy as he ran his hand tiredly through grey hair and something about his expression reminded Gene of someone, though he struggled to remember who.

'Help me,' Gene asked him beseechingly, beginning to feel that the dream he thought he was in was slipping out of his control and starting to wonder whether Hale was somewhere outside of his influence.

'That's what I'm trying to do,' Hale told him steadily, grasping his shoulder.

'You can help me? Get me out of here. Send me back.'

'We can't go back, only forward.'

'No, I did something stupid and I think something awful has happened because of it.'

'Hunt, we're here to police and do the best with what we've got, stupid or not. That's all we can do,' Hale said gently.

'Then that's what this is?' Gene asked hopefully, 'A second chance?'

'All right, we'll pretend yesterday never happened,' Hale agreed, back to his usual business like tone, 'Now get out of this room and do some work,' he said, giving Gene a push out of the room and back to the main office.

'Right, I know you didn't come in with your thinking cap on today. But, luckily for you, it's all quiet on the Western Front in here,' Hale explained as he sat Gene at his desk in the corner of the room, 'So just sit here, be quiet and get on with some paperwork, there's a good lad,' he said, thrusting a newspaper in Gene's face. As he watched Hale retreat into his own office and put his feet up on the desk, Gene hastily began to calculate how many days he had to go. With the air of a schoolboy trying to prevent classmates from copying his work, he was unable to prevent himself from glancing uneasily around. The rest of the office paid him no attention, either engrossed in the day's paper or dozing in their seats. 178 days by his reckoning. That was a long time to wait to catch up, but it wasn't unbearable. The number of days had been his constant mantra during national service, counting down the days until he would never have to march again or endure another kit inspection. Less than two hundred days here would be easy compared to that. _Nearly two hundred days with no mates, no family, wondering if you're a sandwich short of a picnic? Doesn't sound so easy now,_ he reminded himself, _because this is madness, this is what it must feel like to be a lunatic_. He never imagined insanity would feel so confusing. His maternal grandfather had gone a bit odd towards the end, but he had always sounded so convinced in his ravings, Gene was certain he had not been conscious of his madness. Now, all he could do was wonder what was happening in the real world he appeared to have lost contact with, or did that even exist anymore? He had spent most of the night trying to find a way to make the broken television in the attic work to no avail. What was left of that television was little more than a glass screen and some copper wiring, further confirming to him that he had lost his mind.

_I'll soon know;_ when he eventually caught up with his present he was sure he would be able to put everything to right. He now knew that whatever lay behind that door in the farmhouse had put him in danger, but this time he would be better prepared. When June finally rolled around, he would understand what he had to do to protect himself, because that was why he had been given this second chance, he was sure. The universe or time or maybe even God Himself had decided that his fate could not be dictated by one moment. Now it was down to him to make sure he didn't squander this second chance.

'What are you counting down to?'

'Nothing,' Gene replied, stowing the makeshift calendar in a drawer of his desk as Keats craned his neck to see what he had been writing.

'Feeling better today? No more… oddness?'

'Well, I had a chat with Jesus and Queen Victoria and we decided that it's for the best I don't talk to you, because you seem rather strange.'

'I don't think we got off to the best start yesterday, I think I underestimated you. Can we start over?' Keats asked, holding out his hand.

'Mm. All right,' Gene murmured, simply nodding and returned to his calendar. Keats retracted his hand slowly, eyes flashing.

'Can you blame me? There you were, completely out of it and… I don't want this department dragged down further and -between you and me-' Keats said, lowering his voice so that Gene had to lean forward in his chair, 'Hale's not the man he was, or thinks he still is and his word is by no means the last word… if you understand me?'

'I don't know if I do.'

'He's- well, let's just say _self-important_, shall we? Hale will want you to put your faith in him completely and follow him without question, but I can tell that you're too clever to just accept that. Ask your own questions, Hunt, and you'll find the answers you're looking for, not the ones Hale wants you to find.'

'Exactly. I need to find out how to save myself. That's what I need to focus on,' Gene agreed, speaking more to himself than to Keats, who frowned slightly.

'Look, Hale's not going to be in charge forever, and then it will be up to… _others_ to repair the damage. This department's shoddy, there's no way around it… so shoddy, that no one is yet aware that we've got a body waiting,' Keats said, raising his voice to the whole office. Hale swung his feet off his desk and marched out of his office, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

'And how long have you been sitting on that?'

'She was found early this morning. Sorry, I thought you'd be up to speed on it, sir?' Keats replied innocently.

'Where?' Hale asked.

'In Gorton cemetery.'

'I suppose that's fitting. Should have left her there, would have saved us the hassle. Right, _you_, let's see what you're made of,' Hale said, pointing to Gene and motioning for him to follow, 'On a slab, is she?'

'Actually, I think it would be far more productive if DC Hunt first ascertained whether the victim has been reported as missing.'

'No, he's not getting off that easy,' Hale replied, 'Chuck him in at the deep end, see if he floats.'

* * *

'What do you reckon?' Hale asked as they stared down at the body lying between them. When Gene had seen the blonde hair exposed from under the white sheet, he was forcibly reminded of the woman he had dreamt of the night before. However, when the sheet was fully drawn back he recognised it was nothing like her, save for the fair hair. This woman was slighter, painfully thin and pale as snow with a faint blue tinge that betrayed she wasn't simply sleeping. Gene had never studied a body like this before and was shocked at the stillness of her, almost expecting her to open her eyes or at least give a twitch.

'Her wrists are bruised, like they were tied… and she's been dead for a while,' Gene replied, voice muffled slightly by his hand, held just under his nose in an attempt to evade the sickly smell of the morgue.

'A few days at least. It's been below zero the past few nights, so decomposition hasn't happened at the normal rate,' Keats confirmed.

'How did she die?' Hale asked after a few minutes silence as they pondered the body.

'Suffocated,' Keats replied dispassionately. Gene was trying hard not to glance down at the body. Looking at her kept bringing an unbidden thought to mind; _this might be you, this might be why you are so cold, lying on stone waiting for someone to find you_.

'No,' he muttered, shaking his head vehemently.

'What?'

'No… no idea who she was-is?' he asked in answer to the frowns he received from both Hale and Keats.

'No, nothing. But, if she's been dead for a few days, that's time enough for someone to notice she's gone. That can be your next job; see if anyone's missing a daughter or a sister.'

_Has anyone reported you missing?_ _Or are you rotting in some forgotten place? In a field, perhaps? Underneath a scarecrow?_

'I'm alive.'

'What?'

'I need some air.'

'You certainly do, you're green. Delicate constitution?' Keats asked.

'Nah, guts of steel, Jim… I'll see if she's been missed, sir?' Gene said. Hale didn't answer immediately, his hand curled into a fist underneath his chin, he looked almost disappointed when he finally looked at Gene.

'Why am I always looking at someone else's kid here? What I'd really prefer would be some old bastard for me to say, well at least he had a good stretch and went out with a bang.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Go and find out who she is. Then find me who killed her.'

* * *

_Not this again_, he thought more wearily than worriedly, as he found himself lying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling, wondering how he came to be in this predicament once again.

As he sat up the figure who had struck him swan into vision, still holding the paperweight aloft.

'Don't you move!' the voice shouted shrilly. Despite this, he sat up, massaging the back of his head and certain that this blow would do nothing for his headache. The young woman he had dreamt standing atop of the hill had retreated into the corner of the room and he realised she must have been hiding behind the door when he entered the room.

'I said stay where you are!' she snapped. Ignoring her, he stood up slowly, rubbing the back of his head.

'Have- have I met you before?' he asked, watching the brass paperweight warily as she continued to brandish it, skirting along the edge of the room to get away from him.

'Where am I?'

'I wish I could tell you, love. Apparently-'

'Hunt! When I tell you to do something, I want it done sometime this week, not- Oh, this explains it. You all right, sweetheart? He's a bit gormless, but he don't bite,' Hale said, glancing between Gene and the fair haired woman. She did not look convinced and gave a small whimper.

'Who are you people?'

'I'm Superintendent Hale, this is DC Hunt. Why don't we have some tea?' Hale suggested, approaching her. She raised her weapon higher.

'You stay back! Now, where am I?'

'Oh, God, another one? Is this something in the water at the moment? This is CID, sweetheart, or home for the terminally confused. Now, why don't you put that down and then we can-'

'This isn't CID, I work there! I was on my way home, then someone grabbed me, he-he put a bag over my head. Was it one of you?'

'What's your name?' Gene asked quietly. She shook her head, looking close to tears.

'No, don't-'

'Let's get out of this room,' he murmured, holding out a hand to her, 'Are you hurt?'

'No- no, not anymore.'

'Well, at least that's one of us, come on,' he said, as she pressed herself against the wall to avoid his hand, eyeing it worriedly.

'No one's going to hurt you,' he reassured her. She took his hand slowly. He briefly noted how comfortingly warm her hand was as she grasped his like a lifeline, holding it in a vicelike grip.

'That's right. What's your name?' he asked her again, taking a step closer to her.

'It's… it's Wells. It's Amelia Wells,' she whispered haltingly.

'It's all right, love. Let's get you out of here,' he suggested. As he led the way out of the records room and towards his desk she kept hold of his hand with one of hers and gripped his upper arm just as tightly with her other hand. Hale remerged from his office with a glass of amber liquid not long after Gene had sat her down at his desk.

'Get that down you,' he said brusquely.

'I was going to make her some tea-'

'She needs a good stiff drink, Hunt, not bloody tea. There you go,' Hale nodded approvingly as Amelia Wells knocked back the whiskey with a slight cough.

'Have you found out whether she's missing yet?' Keats shouted to Gene as he stuck his head around the doorway, 'She stank of chloroform and the mortuary found this on her,' he explained, twanging a rubber glove, 'Who's this? Witness?' he asked, nodding towards Amelia.

'No, WPC Wells is going to be joining us on this case, and maybe more,' Hale answered. Gene turned his attention back to the woman sat at his desk sceptically. More than anything, he noticed that there didn't seem to be much of WPC Wells and struggled to see her holding her own against anyone, and what if some scum tried to overpower her? He didn't like the idea of a girl putting herself in danger, particularly a girl who had so far proved to be somewhat easily frightened.

If he felt shocked, it was nothing to the look of horror on WPC Wells' face at Hale's words.

'It's DS Wells, actually,' she retorted. Gene was barely able to stifle a snort of disbelieving laughter and Wells swung round with a face like thunder.

'Another one. Do you see what he's caused now?' Keats hissed, glowering at Hale.

'Me? What've I done?' Gene asked indignantly.

'There _will_ be more. You can't keep them out, Hale,' Keats continued. Gene could feel the overwhelming malice radiating from Keats again and was almost glad when Hale simply ignored him and turned to Gene.

'What are you all just standing around for? Go get on with whatever it is you're supposed to be doing. WPC Wells and I need to have a little chat.'

* * *

An hour and a half later, he was no closer to attaching an identity to the body lying in the morgue, but had smoked his way through a whole pack of cigarettes and was half listening to the horse race on the radio perched on a top shelf as he reached across to grab another file.

'…It's neck and neck between Amigo and Magic Touch now as they round the third corner, and it looks like it's going to be Magic Touch by a nose… but I don't believe it! Oh my Lord, I've never seen anything like- and it's Shot Dead In The Head- interesting choice- Shot Dead In The Head in first and I don't think anyone could have predicted that or indeed saw that coming, least of all Gene Hunt! Oh dear, he's going to be kicking himself now!'

At the sound of the third horse's name his ears had pricked, but it was the mention of his name that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and caused Gene to dive across the stacked files, scattering them everywhere, to grab the radio. The broadcast had lost its usual crackle and the voices issuing from it sounded as clear as if they were standing in the room with him.

'Is that it?! Is that what's happened? That's not possible, because- Where am I? Can you hear me? I'm all right!' he shouted, shaking the radio as the commentators just laughed at the outcome of the race, 'Tell me what's happened!'

'Who're you talking to?'

He gave a start and a gasp of fright as he turned around to find Amelia Wells standing in the doorway of the records room, looking him up and down.

'And what a spectacular way for it all to end! Oh, they'll be talking about this for years to come!' the radio burbled happily, the voices slightly muffled by static as they should have been.

'Lost a bet,' he muttered, placing the radio back on its shelf as he watched Amelia creep slowly around the edge of the room, ear to the wall as she rapped her knuckles on it.

'What are you doing?' he asked uneasily, giving the radio a sharp smack in the hope it would tell him more. He wondered who looked madder, him muttering to a radio or Wells, trying to listen to the walls?

'Trying to find something,' she explained briefly, 'How's your head?'

'Oh, you know, a bit clearer now you knocked everything out of it.'

'Sorry. I didn't mean to hit you that hard… well, I did, but now I don't.'

'Well, I'm flattered… or flattened. What are you looking for?'

'A door,' she replied. Gene felt a flutter of hope as he abandoned the radio and watched Amelia.

'You know where the door is?' he breathed. She straightened up and frowned at him.

'_The _door?'

'There's a door- or there _was_ a door- somewhere in here. I need to find it,' he elaborated, lowering his voice conspiratorially, glad that finally someone else recognised the absurdity of their situation.

'I know enough about dreams to know that there's always a get-out route. It's usually a door,' Amelia said, 'It's how you wake up.'

'And then I just go through it?' Gene confirmed, 'Then I can go back?'

'Yes, you can go to the back of my mind, or wherever you came from. What's your name anyway?' she asked, barely listening to him as she crouched down to knock on the floorboards.

'It's-'

'No, actually, don't tell me. I'll see if I can guess. I should be able to, seeing as you're something I've made up. Let's see… Frank? No, Anthony? Maybe something like Nigel?' she said, standing up and turning to face him.

'It's not Rumplestiltskin either. It's Gene Hunt,' he said, holding out his hand. She gave a short laugh.

'That's funny, I would have never come up with that. It sounds like an alter-ego. Mel,' she replied, taking his hand and shaking it briefly.

'Oh, and _Mel Wells_ isn't completely stupid?' he retorted, stung.

'God, you've got dirt under your nails,' she murmured, marvelling at the hand she had not yet let go of, 'What's the point of that detail? Maybe I've lost it. My DI did warn me, said I'd have a nervous breakdown sooner or later if I carried on like this. I just thought it would happen later. Now, I don't have time for imaginary conversations, so be quiet, Gene Hunt, and evaporate or vanish. I need to think.'

'Yeah, and I need to find a way out of here as well, so I think I'll stay. You're wasting your time anyway, I've already searched this room and I couldn't find the bloody door,' he sighed disappointedly. When she had first begun searching for the door he had felt a surge of relief that she might know what she was doing and would be able to get him out of here. Now, he suspected she might know more than she was letting on or was inclined to tell him.

'Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn't you? My mind would tell me not to fight this, but I'm going to find a door and wake up. Sorry to disappoint.'

'This isn't a dream, Amy. Now, if you've got an idea where the door might be, do tell. I need to get out of here just as much as you. There's… there's a lot at stake for me.'

'It's Mel… and this is _my_ dream. Incidentally, I think Freud would have a field day with this dream. What's the matter with me? And what's the matter with this sodding thing?!' she snapped, turning away from him and hitching up her skirt. Gene turned away to protect her modesty and could hear her cursing and fumbling until she slammed down on the desk something he was more accustomed to seeing fluttering on a washing line. The room was silent save for the occasional crackle from the radio as they both regarded the girdle. Gene raised an eyebrow at Amelia.

'Christ, how does anyone breathe in that… I mean, 1952? Seriously? Says a lot about my subconscious if I send myself back to the bloody dark ages. Why didn't I just go the whole hog and wake up when they still wore corsets and hoop skirts?'

'Wish I could have woken up with you in a corset as well,' Gene muttered, 'And you aren't dreaming it. I know it's not supposed to be 1952, but-'

'What do you mean, not supposed to be? Of course it isn't, that's impossible. It can't be 1952 then, can it?' she snapped, 'Are you Amish?' she asked suddenly, sounding almost interested.

'No, but I am quite peckish.'

'Oh, ha ha. You know, they live like it's a hundred years ago or something. Maybe this is similar… listen to me! It's like I think you're a different person. You're just my mind, trying to reason everything out.'

'I wish I could reason it out, Amy, I might feel better then. Maybe this isn't real, I might be mad and you're helping me realise,' he sighed, rubbing his eyes ruefully as he lit a cigarette.

'Those things will kill you,' she told him haughtily.

'Thought I wasn't real?' he replied with a smirk, offering her one. She shook her head and scowled.

'Well, we can't both be right. One of us is wrong.'

'You,' he said.

'We'll see,' Amelia replied, narrowing her eyes.

'Yes… we'll see I'm right,' Gene smiled. Amelia took a step closer to him, studying his face. He could see himself reflected in her blue eyes.

'You know what's funny? If I ever imagined having a split personality, I thought it would just be an identical me. I never thought I could also be a boy from the fifties.'

'Well, I'm certainly not one half of a gobby tart either.'

* * *

**I really appreciate seeing little flurries of activity on this page, it makes my little writing heart happy. And maybe some reviews, eh? A girl's got to improve her style ;)**

******Once again, sounding like a broken record, thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I meant to put this up before I went away for the weekend, but left in a mad rush and forgot. My bad...**

**Anyway, onwards...**

* * *

'Right, let's get something absolutely clear: the next time I find your mug tactfully placed on my desk, I'm going to shove it up your arse. Got that?' Amelia snapped, slamming the empty mug back down on Gene's desk.

'No chance of you finding me biscuit either, then?' he asked with a slight smile.

'Actually, the only thing I'm interested in finding is a murderer. A snack for you can wait.'

'Don't you think it's a bit… unpleasant for you? As a bird? I would've thought-'

'Yes, well, unfortunately you need a brain for that. Maybe I should get you that biscuit, it would shut you up,' Amelia retorted, throwing a pencil back at him. He had launched it at her with a rubber band only moments ago, nodding pointedly to the empty mug he had placed on her desk.

'I wouldn't like a girl of mine doing a job like this,' he continued, twanging another rubber band when she returned to studying the files laid out in front of her.

'Well, it's a good thing I'm not, isn't it?'

'What's that bloke of yours think about this?'

'He's very supportive, actually.'

'Doesn't he worry about you?'

'I can look after myself, he knows that… why're you so interested anyway?' she asked, continuing the missile attack with a hairpin when he didn't respond.

'I thought you'd joined up to catch a man. Except you've already got one.'

'Sorry to disappoint you, once again, but I'm not sitting here tying myself in knots, hoping and praying that you'll direct your attentions to me, Geno.'

'Don't get your knickers in a twist about that, Wells, I've already noticed,' he said with a smirk.

'Oh, really? Noticed what?' she replied wearily.

'Noticed you still haven't made me some tea.'

'Oh, yes, getting absolutely nowhere in the past two hours must be thirsty work.'

'Some of these people have been missing for years. I mean, this woman was only reported missing two months ago, but no one's seen her for two years! How does that happen?' Gene asked incredulously. Amelia shrugged.

'Maybe they thought she was moving away, maybe they lost touch with her, who knows? Maybe they didn't notice she'd gone until it was too late?'

'How does someone just vanish? Wasn't she missed? This is all that's left of her, just some paper. She's not… Louise anymore, she's just "missing",' Gene continued, willing the colleague sat opposite him to give him some reassurance that it wasn't simply a fact of life- or end of life- that a name on a scrap of paper at the bottom of a filing cabinet was his fate.

'Not to people who cared about her, she'll still be as she was the last time they saw her. Maybe they didn't want to believe she was missing. Even though they did miss her,' Amelia replied sympathetically. Neither spoke for a minute or two, until Gene cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence that had descended.

'I'm fed up of sitting at a bloody desk. Let's get out of here,' Gene sighed, running a hand through his hair and throwing on his jacket.

'Thought your DI wanted you to look through these missing people files?' Amelia replied, remaining in her seat, 'Though it would help if we had some photos to go on.'

'I think we should go to the Royal Infirmary. She smelled of anaesthetic and there was a rubber glove found nearby, either she worked at a hospital or whoever killed her did,' he explained hurriedly, stacking the files and shoving them in a drawer, 'Unless you want to stay here and be ready and waiting with some garibaldis and tea when I get back?' he suggested when she remained sitting at her desk.

'What is it with you and tea?' Amelia asked as she pulled on the itchy coat of her uniform.

* * *

'Well, we might as well have just stayed at our desks.'

Trawling through the hospital and speaking to any staff they encountered had yielded no new information, no one had known the girl whose picture they showed, nor could they recall treating her.

'Maybe it was a different hospital?' Gene persisted, determined he was going to be right about this lead. It felt good to be doing something; at least working on this distracted him from the bigger problem at hand. When he had been the only person convinced of the absurdity of his situation, it had been frightening but at least it had made sense. The arrival of someone just as baffled as him ought to have been comforting, instead it had made him feel the situation was even more out of his control and had left him feeling paranoid, appearing to have the same effect on Wells. It felt as though she was keeping as close an eye on him as he was on her, both determined that the other would not learn or discover anything that might help them without being present to utilise it themselves. Of course, this was all unspoken, neither trusted the other enough to say anything incriminating aloud.

He sighed and dropped down to sit on the steps at the back of the hospital, flicking his lighter open and closed agitatedly.

'I hate hospitals,' Amelia admitted, perching a couple of steps above him, 'Can I have one?' she asked as she watched Gene light a cigarette.

'Thought you didn't like them?' he replied, handing her one anyway and lighting it for her.

'I gave them up a while back, but… I don't think imaginary cigarettes are as toxic as real ones,' she shrugged, 'Why am I doing this to myself?'

'What?'

'The last thing I remember is someone putting a cloth over my face that was soaked in some sort of chemical, and then my mind decides to throw up a murdered girl with that same chemical on her. What kind of sick mind do I have? She even looks like me!'

'She was smaller than you,' Gene replied distractedly. The indignant scoff he heard next captured his full attention and set warning bells ringing.

'Smaller?' Amelia repeated dangerously.

'You know… she was just- I mean… you fill out a dress better.'

'Good answer… sorry,' Amelia muttered as someone tried to squeeze past them down the steps, 'Let me help you with that,' she offered, taking hold of the other end of the canister the hospital porter was struggling down the steps with.

'Cheers,' he muttered, averting his eyes when they had set the canister on the ground at the foot of the steps, 'You're here about that girl, aren't you?' he continued, suddenly bolder when he noticed the police hat she had left on the steps beside Gene.

'Yes, we are. Do you know if she might have worked here, or visited?' Amelia asked, handing him the picture they had shown to others working at the hospital. He didn't take the photograph but simply frowned at it before shaking his head.

'Nah, she was never here, why would she have been? Weren't she found in the cemetery? It's not the sort of place you'd want to walk through at night.'

'Why, in case one of the ghouls got you?' Gene asked with a slightly mocking tone. The porter didn't answer but glanced suspiciously between the two officers in front of him.

'You be careful,' he instructed Amelia, 'It's not a nice job, what you and him are doing-'

'I already told her that,' Gene interjected.

'-It's dangerous. You want to make sure you don't go the same way as Nicola,' he warned, picking the canister up again.

'Nicola?' Gene repeated sharply.

'That's what she was called, wasn't it?' he shrugged.

'You know, I think there might've been a Nicola in those missing people's files,' Amelia added.

'Look, I can't help you anymore… Keep an eye on her,' he informed Gene, lugging the canister and rounding the corner of the hospital.

'Right! Back to the station, find out who this Nicola is: finished,' Gene exclaimed, full of vigour once again. The end of this nightmare was in sight and he could practically feel how close he was to returning to reality.

'Exactly, solve the problem, take control…' Amelia agreed, beaming.

'Everything will be right as rain.'

'And then I can wake up from this, thank God. Good work, Geno,' she smiled, punching his arm lightly.

'Told you it was a good idea of mine to come to the hospital.'

'So technically it was _my_ idea, secondary personality.'

'You _wish_ there was a bit of my good self in you.'

'I've changed my mind, you are repulsive.'

* * *

'Mr McLarnon? If you'd like to follow us, sir,' Gene suggested as they made their way down to the morgue. When they had returned to CID he had found a file reporting the disappearance of a Nicola McLarnon by her husband. His wife had been missing for nearly a week and Gene had no idea what he was supposed to say when they showed the body to the man currently holding tightly to Amelia's arm, looking more and more terrified as they approached the morgue. What was there to say? He could promise McLarnon that he would find his wife's killer, though that was in itself unlikely, and then what? What he hated the most was knowing that he had no way of putting this right. She would still be dead, murderer apprehended or not.

'She just… she was visiting her sister. She hadn't been gone long, it's only a few streets away. Five minutes, at most. How- how can this happen between a few streets? She was just gone for half an hour…' McLarnon whispered to Amelia, leaning on her more and more as they entered the morgue and Gene took over escorting him to the body as Amelia looked likely to buckle under his weight.

'I know this is going to be difficult,' Amelia said softly, 'But it's something that needs to be done. Are you ready?'

'No, no. No, she can't be dead! She can't be! I should have been with her, I-' McLarnon cried, grabbing Gene's arm.

'Listen to me: I will find whoever did this. I promise you, we will get them,' Gene told him firmly, 'First we've got to do this, all right?' he explained, nodding to Amelia for her to lift the sheet away from the body.

'Is this Nicola?' she asked in a voice almost drowned out by McLarnon's sobs. Using Gene to steady himself he seemed unable to prevent himself glancing at the body lying before him. Bracing himself to catch him should he indeed collapse, which he looked in danger of doing, Gene was surprised when he began shaking his head.

'No… no, that's… that's not Nicola,' McLarnon gasped, frowning, 'That's not her!'

'Are-are you sure?' Amelia asked gently.

'I think he's going to recognise his own wife,' Gene replied as McLarnon gave a sigh of relief.

'This is Nicola,' he said, handing Gene a framed picture showing the two on their wedding day and proving that this woman definitely did not match the picture of Nicola McLarnon.

'I mean, I'm sorry about _her_,' he said, 'But Nicola might be all right… there's nothing to say she isn't.'

'Has Nicola ever walked out before?'

'No… that's the problem,' McLarnon answered, looking crestfallen again, 'You will keep looking for her, won't you? It's not like her and, well, I'm glad this isn't her… but we're all worried about Nicola.'

'Course you are,' Gene agreed, 'Go home and have a drink, it's been a hell of a day for you… and we'll keep an eye out for Nicola.'

'Do you mind if we keep hold of that photo?' Amelia asked, 'We don't want to put you through this unnecessarily again.'

'They look alike, don't they?' Gene murmured after McLarnon was out of earshot. Amelia nodded in agreement, studying the photograph.

'Do you think they're linked?'

'I don't know. I hope not… We're back to square one, aren't we? Or square minus one, because now we've got another missing woman to find and nothing to go on,' he sighed.

'Serial killers have types, they have predilections. There's always a pattern.'

'Well, I'd rather not wait for the bodies to pile up, if it's all the same to you.'

'Both blonde and slim. Under thirty, attractive-'

'So, we're looking for someone who likes good-looking blondes? Right, we better get cracking then, I think it's going to be a long night… and a nasty one, by the sound of it. God, that wind is loud, isn't it?'

'What wind?' Amelia asked, looking bewildered.

'Outside, must be a gale.'

'There isn't any wind, I don't know what you're talking about,' she replied warily.

'Can't… can't you hear it?' Gene asked uncertainly, raising his voice as the sound of the howling wind overpowered his other senses, and he thought it was in his imagination, but could have sworn he could hear the creaking and groaning of trees and rustling of leaves with the wind.

'Why are you shouting?' Amelia hissed, her voice growing progressively quieter and more waspish as Gene raised his own.

'What? Are you cold?'

'It's a bit chilly down here, yeah.'

'I'm really cold… freezing,' Gene murmured, taking several deep breaths, certain he would see his breath steaming in the air, and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to fight off the icy chill that was creeping through him and leeching away any warmth.

'It's this room, come and sit down outside. You're going to faint,' Amelia said gently, taking his hand and once again he was struck by how warm her hand was as she led the way out of the morgue.

'No, I'm… M'all right.'

'I should get someone,' she said worriedly as Gene sat down in the corridor outside the morgue, shivering and running his hands up and down his arms, 'You're not right, look at you, you're grey.'

'No, stay with me,' he replied, holding her hand in both of his, 'Don't go.'

He felt he was sinking deeper and deeper into the sensations of being doused with icy water whilst the wind continued to roar in his ears and if they were going to drown him, as he was convinced was happening, he didn't want to die alone and the squeeze of Amelia's hand told him he wouldn't.

Then it was gone, and it was though a mask had been lifted. The silence of the morgue was almost ringing, save for a distant tap dripping and the scuff of someone's shoes on the tiles, and his numb fingers felt as though they were coming back to life, the air here now pleasantly cool rather than stingingly cold.

_I am alive_, he reminded himself as he got gingerly to his feet, unsteady and shivering as though he was beginning to recover from flu. This had been the first time since his arrival in this place that he had been unsure of his survival and now it seemed doubly important to continue to repeat this affirmation so that he might keep it that way.

'It's gone- it's gone,' he sighed, aware he was now breathing easier, had he been choking before?

'Don't get up, you still look a bit peaky,' Amelia ordered, feeling his forehead to check him temperature, 'Come on, Geno, I need you to stay strong, can't have half of myself crashing down. Maybe you should put your head between your legs?'

'Nah, I think I'll skip that… I need a drink.'

'I'll get you some water, stay there.'

'Unless you can pull a Jesus, I think it was beer he was looking for,' Keats said, strolling down the corridor, 'Or have you already been at it?' he wondered, staring concernedly down at Gene on the floor, 'What have you got for me?' he asked, turning to Amelia.

'We'll try all the hospitals in the radius of that cemetery tomorrow. Now that Super and I have sorted out… a bit of admin, I'll take over this investigation. You remember what I told you yesterday about Superintendent Hale, don't you?' he reminded Gene after both he and Amelia had explained their day.

'Yeah, I do,' Gene replied cautiously, half expecting Hale to materialise around the corner, ears ringing at being conspired against, however unwillingly on Gene's part.

'You've both done well today. Now, let's go and get a drink- my round.'

'Sir, it's Monday afternoon,' Amelia said incredulously.

'Best time for a pint… and you don't have to call me sir. All friends here, aren't we? Unless you'd rather be WPC Wells?'

'I'd rather be DS Wells if it's all the same.'

'Carry on like this and you will be… and you,' he said pointedly to Gene, now pulling himself up from the floor and steadying himself against a wall as the corridor swam before his eyes, 'If you ever make it.'

* * *

Several hours later, of their party only Gene and Amelia remained in the pub. The rest of their team had slowly left and half an hour ago even Keats had called it a night, warning them not to stay too late. Hale had joined them briefly, but had only been company in the loosest sense of the word; he had bought his drink, sat slightly apart from their group, surveying them through a cloud of smoke before leaving again, only after he had briefly spoken with Gene.

'Not completely bemused today, my lad?'

'No, sir.'

'Keep your eye on the ball, Hunt. Solving _this_ is what you've got to focus on. Don't let your attention wander… in more ways than one,' Hale told him in a low voice, clapping him on the shoulder before exiting the pub and disappearing into the night.

'What did he want?' Amelia asked as she returned with their next round of drinks.

'Nothing very much.'

'He seems very sad, doesn't he?' she commented, taking a gulp of wine.

'Sad?'

'Yes, not upset, just sort of… melancholy.'

'Bloody hell, is this what you get like when you're drunk? All sentimental?'

'I am _not_ drunk.'

'I think I am… What am I even doing here?' he sighed. _I ought to be trying to fight this_, he reminded himself somewhere through the mist of alcohol stupefying his mind. Except it was so much more comfortable to sink into a stupor, slumped over the table with Wells. At least this didn't hurt as much, it blocked out the headache that had lingered since he had first awoken in the records room. Nowhere near as blindingly painful as it had been at first, but always serving as a reminder of his worst fears.

'Search me.'

'I mean, all I've got to do is wait it out. Just give it a few months until everything catches up. But then what? I can't even remember what happened.'

'Well, that's no good to me. I can't just wait here, can I?'

'I'm not exactly ecstatic about having to redo half a year either. Do you think I'm younger again? Last time I checked I was nearly twenty, now I might be just nineteen.'

'Just nineteen?! I thought you were about twenty five,' Amelia exclaimed.

'Sorry to disappoint.'

'Then again, I shouldn't be surprised. You really are a child.'

'Don't feel too guilty, cradle-snatcher, I've always looked older. A few times people have thought my little brother was _my_ kid,' Gene admitted and felt a slight ache thinking about Will.

'How old is he?'

'Last time I saw him he was just seven. Now he's probably six again.'

'You really are pissed… my brother is fourteen, wherever he is.'

'That's why I've got to solve this, Amy, I need to get back to Will… and Mam. That's what I signed up for, looking after people and if I can't look after them, what's the point?' he sighed.

'That's very noble of you.'

'You taking the piss?'

'No. No, I'm not, I'm serious. It's a good, decent thing to do,' she said gently. Gene gave an uncomfortable shrug, feeling his ears turning red at telling Wells his private plan of keeping his mother and brother safe. However, it had only occurred to him recently and had not been the reason for his joining the police, that had rested with James Hunt.

When he had left school at fifteen he had been commandeered, as the cousins had been, into working in the shop that his grandfather had acquired a few years previously. Like the other business ventures of his grandfather, it had worked out so well for him that no one had dared question how this opportunity had presented itself.

'Have you got any plans, Geno?' James had asked.

'Dad won't shut up about the army.'

'I didn't ask about him, did I? I asked _you._'

'I'm going to have to try it anyway, aren't I? I suppose it would be all right.'

'I would've thought you had to be fairly certain before going into a career that could get you killed.'

'Well, yeah. I bet that's why Dad wants me to go into it.'

'Don't say stupid things like that,' James said sternly, 'And don't you do anything just because someone else says you ought to. My old man, your great-granddad, he wanted me to go to work at the mill with him. He was lucky if he had enough money for a pint at the end of the day. Instead, the drinks are always on me.'

'Why didn't you? It would've been easier to just work there.'

'Sheer bloody-mindedness, lad. I know you're the same as me; someone tells you they know the best thing for you to do, we'd both say 'Sod you, I'll work it out for meself'. That's why we've always seen eye to eye.'

'I had thought about joining the police,' Gene had admitted. With the authority of it, he liked the idea of being the word and the law. He liked the security of this career that he could wrap around himself like a blanket. Of course there was also the enticing thought of fulfilling his cowboy daydreams.

'Then you should do that. That's the beauty of it, Geno, you can do whatever you want with your life while you still can. As it happens, neighbour of mine is in the force and he seems to be doing all right on it.'

'Is this your way of trying to give me the sack?'

'Would I ever do that? Nah, I just know you're better than working for your old granddad forever, Geno,' James laughed, 'The thing is, you've only got one go at it, and you don't want to spend life doing what others tell you… Though if you wanted, this could all be yours,' he suggested, gesturing majestically to the stacked shelves surrounding them.

'Oh, wow, it's everything I ever wanted,' Gene replied sarcastically.

'The tins, the jars, all of it,' James continued mockingly, 'Once I kick the bucket.'

'Or retire,' Gene amended. He didn't like his grandfather's references to death, growing in frequency since he could remember. The idea of a slow march to an inevitable end unnerved him and he had wondered how dreadful it must be for his grandfather.

'I won't retire. I'm not going to sit in my chair and rot… don't ever get old, Geno, it's a terrible thing.'

'I don't plan to.'

His grandfather hadn't lived to see him join the force but had died whilst Gene was away on national service. When he had told his parents about joining upon his return, Stephen had told him it was a cop out, though he thought his mother had seemed relieved.

'I only really joined because Dad was a cop,' Amelia shrugged, snapping Gene out of his reverie.

'Mm,' Gene replied as they both downed the scotches he had bought them. Wells had mumbled something about tequila shots, whatever they were he hoped whiskey would suffice.

'That's what I told everyone when I was little. All of Dad's friends were cops so it was the only thing I really knew.'

'You close to your dad?'

'When I was younger, yes. I was a proper Daddy's girl, but then… not anymore.'

'Why? What happened?'

'I was a bit of a shit when I was in my teens,' Amelia admitted, pouring more scotch into her glass and slopping the rest into Gene's, 'A real bitch. You name it, I did it. Drinking, smoking, stealing money off my aunt. Just horrible.'

'Bloody hell, Amy.'

'What's the worst thing you've ever done then, Geno?' Amelia asked interestedly

'Kicked a magician on the shin and stomped on his foot whilst Stuart- that's my older brother- nicked his wallet when I was eight. Wasn't exactly the slippery slope to a life of crime you would have thought it would be. I did get a load of sweets out of it though.'

'I only escaped a life of crime by being arrested. Sort of sobered me up a bit.'

'Speaking of sobering up-'

'Why are we even talking about this? If I'm stuck here, I shouldn't make it worse for myself. Does it always have to be about suffering?' she snapped, grabbing her coat and struggling to her feet.

'Where the hell are you going?'

'Home.'

'I'll walk you,' Gene murmured, heaving himself out of his seat and feeling the world spin beneath him so quickly that he had to grab the table again to steady himself.

'No, leave me alone.'

'You're not walking home by yourself. You might not remember, but there's someone out there who likes killing pretty blonde girls,' Gene insisted, following her as she exited the pub. Thinking the cold night air would help him regain some sobriety, he was shocked to find himself reeling when the stars in the inky black sky lurched above him. A small voice in the back of his mind told him he was making a fool of himself by following several paces behind Wells, but he was determined she would get home safely. When he grew tired of watching her totter along the street, running her hand along the low stone wall outside the row of houses to keep herself vertical, he stared up at the sky and wasn't sure whether it was because he was drunk, but thought the sky crowded with many more stars than usual.

'Will you just piss off?!' Amelia shrieked suddenly after several minutes walking, whirling around and causing a nearby cat to skitter across a nearby alleyway. He noticed the moonlight illuminated tear tracks down her cheeks.

'No,' he replied after regarding her in silence for a few moments, 'There- there isn't really anywhere for me in this place, I don't know what's happening and I'm… scared. I know you are as well and if I stick with you then I feel less like I've lost the plot,' he explained, scuffing his feet on the ground uncomfortably. Wells gave a large sniff and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

'I can't help you. I can't help myself… I'm still pissed,' she sighed tiredly, 'I need to go to bed. It's gone one.'

'Is it? Ah, shit. Lord High and Mighty will've locked me out.'

'Oh. What are you-?'

'I'll be fine, Amy. I'll take you home and then go for a walk, clear my head like,' Gene told her, gesturing for her to continue lurching down the street with him. Amelia shook her head and grabbed his arm.

'No, if you go for a walk, you might end up walking right off the road. I'd feel bad if we found you floating in the canal tomorrow. You can sleep on my floor if you want,' Amelia argued when he showed every sign of disagreeing.

'I don't think it's a good idea for me to stay at your place, Amy. It's not proper,' he protested. Amelia rolled her eyes.

'Ooh, _proper_. Don't get your hopes up, sunshine, you're sleeping on the floor.'

'Even so-'

'What? I might abandon myself to desire at the sight of you lying dishevelled on the floor?'

'My appeal is un-unparalleled, Amy… Women are unable to resist my charms… Oh, God- I think I'm gonna chuck,' he heaved and retched into someone's flowerbed.

'Shh!' Amelia hissed, leading him up a steep flight of stairs, 'She's going to go mad when she sees that.'

'Who?'

'My landlady. I'll say I don't know anything about it,' Amelia whispered, unlocking the door and stumbling into the dark flat. When she turned on the lights, Gene noticed with the faintest tinge of jealousy that her place was nicer than his as he collapsed onto the sofa, only taking in the flat for a moment before closing his eyes. For one thing, her warm flat had a separate bedroom and bathroom, from which she emerged with a blanket and threw it over him.

'Go to sleep and keep your hands to yourself,' Amelia ordered, but his snores indicated that he had not heard a word she had said. Whilst he might have passed for twenty five whilst conscious, she thought he looked even younger than his nineteen years as he drew the blanket tighter around himself in his sleep. He muttered something indistinct as she pulled his shoes off, the maternal instinct she usually reserved for Martin only taking over at the sight of his vulnerability in sleep.

'G'night, you daft sod,' she whispered, squeezing his shoulder and retiring to bed herself.

* * *

**Enjoy? Didn't? Read and review, lovely humans. Until next time xxxx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Another speedy chapter update, full steam ahead...**

* * *

_You are dead._

This was the first thing Gene saw on the note he found tucked in his shirt pocket the next morning when he awoke alone in the flat. He sat up suddenly, head spinning as he tried to focus on the words on the scrap of paper in front of him. On closer inspection, the note was slightly longer and less ominous.

_I've gone out to get some milk._

_Touch any of my things – you are dead._

_Mel_

'Come on, get a grip,' he sighed, rubbing his eyes and mentally berating himself for jumping at every little thing. He sat up and cracked his neck, sore from sleeping awkwardly on the sofa. He had slept fitfully, waking every hour or so with a heavy pressing sensation at the top of his chest and a throbbing headache to boot. His mouth was dry and throat sore from vomiting the night before and what he really wanted was a piss, something to eat and a cigarette to soothe his throat, all in that order.

Wondering briefly whether he was violating the instructions he had been left with, Gene splashed his face with water at the sink and rinsed his mouth, taking care not to splash the stockings that had been left to drip dry over the sink.

'Oh, good, you're up. I was hoping I wouldn't have to turf you out of bed. Listen, I saw Jim while I was out and he reckons they've found someone who knows who not-Nicola might be.'

'Any chance of breakfast in bed?'

'No, let's go!'

'You just ran into him?'

'Well, I suppose he lives nearby. I tried not to run into him, I'm looking pretty rough this morning if you hadn't noticed.'

'I hadn't. Who is she then?'

'Friend who identified her says she's called May.'

'Good. Great, that's something… where're my shoes?'

'Here. I took them off last night.'

'Christ, my head hurts. How much did we have last night?' Gene groaned as he pulled his shoes on and tried to make his hair lie flat.

'Too much. I don't think I'll ever drink whiskey again.'

They almost bowled over Amelia's landlady as they hurried out of the flat. Her mouth set in a hard line at the sight of Gene and she fixed them with a searching, suspicious look.

'I didn't realise you had a guest, _Miss_ Wells,' she commented, folding her arms crossly. Amelia was silent for a moment, before giving her landlady a winning smile.

'I'm so sorry, I completely forgot to introduce you, Mrs Evans. This is my very dear brother, Eugene, he's come home at such short notice because our father isn't very well… it really isn't looking very good.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Yes, both Eugene and I are very upset about it. Which is why he had to stay with me, he needs to be nearby in case… well, in case of the worst. Don't you, dear?'

'It's a- a very difficult time for both of us,' Gene agreed, trying to look less incredulous at Amelia's lie and more pained at the imminent death of their mutual imaginary father and finally settled on addressing the ground.

'Well, I won't keep you here chatting then,' Mrs Evans said, placated, 'Lord knows something like this would drive me to stay out drinking until gone midnight.'

'Mm,' Amelia nodded, determinedly smiling through the fact that she had been rumbled. As Mrs Evans disappeared back into the house, Gene couldn't contain the snort of laughter building up inside any longer.

'Well done, Amy, I think she bought it.'

'You know what the worst part is? Now that I've lied once, there is no way I'm going to be able to convince her that I wasn't shagging you.'

'And why would you want to? Anyway, that'll teach you for inviting men back to your flat.'

'Not men, a man. More specifically, an annoying boy… are you coming to the station or what?' she asked as she noticed he had stopped several paces back at the corner of another street.

'Erm… you go on. I'll catch you up in a minute,' Gene told her, turning around and heading in the opposite direction.

'Where are you going?' Amelia shouted after him.

'I'm just… I've got to check something, I'll see you in a bit,' he replied. Amelia disappeared out of sight as he rounded the corner and increased his pace. Passing that street had reminded him, but why hadn't he thought of this before? It was so simple, and yet it hadn't even occurred to him. Or had it always been at the back of his mind, but investigating was too disturbing? If he found what he hoped to find would he no longer be able to differentiate between reality and madness?

When he reached the end of that familiar alleyway, he hesitated and was tempted to go back to the station. The thrill of anticipation had faded and he was nervous all of a sudden; worried that he had got his hopes up in vain and aware he would feel the ache of loneliness more keenly after this if he turned out to be wrong.

He ran his hand along the wooden gate at the back of the house, feeling it tilt as normal, one of its hinges coming away from the fence post. It groaned as usual when he pushed it open and the first thing he saw was Holiday digging an increasingly large hole in the narrow strip of earth that was their garden. He remembered when Holiday had dug up and wolfed down a load of carrots and potatoes that his mother had planted and how angry she had been, the only time he had seen her genuinely furious, telling him and Stuart she was going to send Holiday back where he had come from, that she was sick of muddy pawprints and food going missing. Gene and Stuart had wrapped themselves around Holiday in protest, promising that Holiday could be trained to be a good dog, the type that rescued children from wells or sounded the alarm if he smelled a fire or even chased off intruders. Holiday had remained stubbornly untrained, their father had pronounced Holiday as nothing more than a walking shit factory, and Gene and Stuart had become Holiday's unwilling co-conspirators, taking turns covering up any of his misdemeanours and sneaking him in and out of their bedroom before anyone noticed. No one realised that the reason Holiday had stopped howling at night was not because he had learnt it would do him no good, but that he had no need to howl once he was happily tucked into bed, stretching out until he had pushed one of his accomplices out of bed completely.

'Holiday!' Gene hissed as he pushed the gate open, wondering whether the dog would react to the sight of him, or if Holiday could even see him. Holiday had been so named for Stuart's first crush of Billie Holiday, something he vehemently denied, claiming the name choice had simply been coincidence, and that the rest of the family teased him mercilessly for.

'Come on, boy,' Gene called, crouching down to Holiday's level. The dog cocked his head to the side and, after a moment's pause, gave an excited yelp, dashing to grab sticks and rocks to deposit in front of Gene, wagging his tail and leaping at him.

'Stupid dog,' he murmured as he patted the dog rolling on the ground in front of him. The back door clattered open and with a sharp intake of breath he realised how much he had forgotten what she looked like in such a short space of time. This would be the biggest test, it was one thing for the dog to acknowledge him, but another thing entirely for his mother to recognise him. If she did, it would prove to him that everything would be all right, that he had found his way back home, or some semblance of it at least.

Aware he was no longer being petted, Holiday gave another yelp and she turned her head at this. Gene expected her either to look straight through him or to appear shocked at the sight of him.

'Oh, hello, love,' she smiled and carried on pegging out washing.

'Mam?' he asked uncertainly, getting to his feet and brushing the dirt off his knees. He approached her tentatively with his hand outstretched, sure that she would vanish at any moment.

'Yes, love?'

'Oh, my God, Mam!' he gasped, hugging her tightly and breathing in her familiar homely scent of perfume, cigarettes and baking.

'What's the matter, darling?' she asked concernedly.

'I thought- I thought-'

'Hey, what's all this about?' she tried again, smoothing his hair reassuringly.

'Is it over now?'

'Is what over?'

'I thought I was lost. I'm not, am I?'

'No, darling, you're right here. D'you want tea? Or something to eat? I worry about you, living in that little room. Are you eating enough? You don't look like you're eating enough.'

'I'm fine,' he sighed as she sat him down at the kitchen table. The lack of concern his mother had shown surprised and reassured him, he had imagined she would be relieved to see him after his disappearance. Instead it appeared that he had never left. It was all going to be all right; he wasn't lost or missing or gone, he was here and there was still a place for him in the world.

'I didn't think I was ever going to see any of you again,' he explained. Evelyn frowned slightly.

'Darling, you're only twenty minutes' walk away. Besides, William will be beside himself if you don't visit him. You remember the fuss he kicked up when he found out you were moving to your own place?'

''Where is Will?' he asked after a few gulps of tea, suddenly noticing his brother's absence, 'Is he here as well?'

'School. You know, it's that big building that doesn't seem to have done you any good,' Evelyn smiled.

'School. Of course he is, why wouldn't he be?'

'What's this all about, love? You're being very strange,' she asked gently, stroking his hand, 'You're not in any sort of trouble, are you?'

'Something happened, Mam. It was June, and then I woke up here. But this feels so real, _you_ look real and I can't tell whether before was real and now I'm mad, or whether I've always been mad and now is real or even if the six months after this I thought I lived was just a dream… Does that count as being in trouble? Being nuts?'

'Oh, Genie… have you been drinking?'

'No! Well, yes, but- tell me what to do, Mam. How am I meant to work out what is real?'

'Well, this feels very real to me, and if it does to you as well, then it probably is. It's a lot to take in, love, growing up. It feels a lot like losing grip. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be at work?'

'Yes. Yeah, I should go. I just wanted to check… just check everything was all right,' Gene agreed, 'It _is_ all right, isn't it? This is how it's always been?'

'Has been since I last looked.'

'I'm DC? I have my own place? It's definitely not 1953 yet?'

'Give it a few weeks, darling, then it will be.'

* * *

He returned to the station feeling so much lighter, the dead weight of worry that he hadn't realised had been weighing him down was lifted.

Until he reached the office. Even before he opened the door he could hear Wells shouting about something. He supposed that someone had unsuspectingly placed their mug on her desk and all hell had broken loose. Wells' ideas of what she ought to be doing seemed to differ vastly from what Gene had expected a WPC did. Though he had no doubt she could terrify anyone with the deathly glare she had given him several times and God knew she was cleverer than most, there was still the added pressure that he had to not only watch his own back, but hers as well.

'Gene agrees with me, don't you?' she asked him the moment he had stepped over the threshold into the office.

'What? Amy, listen, I've got something to tell you-'

'It doesn't make any difference whether Hunt agrees or not. The answer's still not on your life,' Hale replied, 'Now, how's about tea and biscuits? There's a good girl.'

'The woman who identified May is downstairs and I think we should go talk to her, Superintendent Hale doesn't think there's any need.'

'She's already told us all we need to know: the girl was a pro and found out she was in the family way. This friend said she was going to get it sorted out, then she turns up dead. Doesn't take a genius to put together what happened… unless you're WPC Wells and you think it's some sort of cover,' Hale explained exasperatedly.

'Abortion gone wrong is a perfect cover, no one is going to question it… and I still think May and Nicola McLarnon are linked.'

'Where is May's friend?' Gene asked reluctantly as Wells continued to stare expectantly up at him.

'I put her in DI Keats' office.'

'Oh, that'll be a nice surprise for him, shall we go and retrieve her?' Gene suggested as Hale rolled his eyes over Amelia's shoulder.

'So, why did you report May as missing?' Gene asked when he, Amelia and Maggie were huddled outside of CID. Maggie had insisted on talking outside, preferring to pace up and down in the icy winter air than to be sat in their office.

'I wouldn't usually. Like, if I don't see her for a few days, that's normal. But it'd been nearly a month and it wasn't like she went off with some punter, you know? She went to have something done about being up the junction and I said I'd check on her, make sure she had enough money, cause she wasn't going to be able to work for a while after that.'

'Did she say who she was going to see about the abortion?' Amelia asked, waving a hand to get rid of the cloud of smoke forming from the two cigarettes either side of her.

'No. She didn't have a name, just an address. You never get a name with these things.'

'Have any other girls used that address before?'

'Dunno. Don't think so. But you never hear about the same place twice, I guess they get arrested or closed down and others appear, you know? No one's checking, are they?'

'And last of all, did May know – or maybe you did – a woman called Nicola McLarnon? This is her,' Amelia continued, showing Maggie the picture they had taken from Nicola's husband.

'Yeah, I recognise her. She worked in a shop near May's home. I went in to get something for May and she let me have it free because I said she wasn't well, when I took it to May I realised she was gone,' Maggie explained, 'Is she dead too?'

'Hopefully not. She is missing though,' Gene replied.

'Let us know if any other girls go missing, Maggie, and maybe you lot should keep off the streets for a while, how about it?' Amelia suggested.

'No can do, darling. Got to eat, haven't we? Can't all work with nice young men,' she replied, 'Can you spare another one?' she asked Gene, stubbing out the remainder of her cigarette.

'Have them,' he offered, handing her the packet, 'We just don't want anyone else getting hurt. If you have to carry on, be careful.'

'Ain't he a sweetie?' Maggie commented to Amelia, 'I'll remember you've got credit if I see those gorgeous eyes come my way again. It's a shame you're the same age as my boy,' she laughed.

'Yeah, well, look after yourself,' Gene said embarrassedly, scowling as Amelia tried to stifle a disbelieving snort of laughter.

'I'll try, darling. I'd like to look after you if you'd let me!' she smiled, giving him a wave as she disappeared around the corner.

'What the hell was that about?' Amelia managed to choke out through her laughter.

'Women want me,' Gene answered with as much dignity as he could muster.

'Oh, please.'

'I'm telling you, it's a fact of life… Anyway, what did you reckon?'

'You mean aside the propositioning someone young enough to be her son?'

'Not jealous?'

'Grow up. I think what we need to do is find out whether Nicola went to see someone about an abortion.'

'Nicola isn't one of them, though.'

'Oh, does that mean she wants an endless stream of little McLarnons?' Amelia retorted.

'She is married, she knew what she was getting into.'

'I can assure you, Geno- and I know this is going to be difficult to understand- that my thoughts aren't fixed around giving my husband ten children when we get married… if we get married,' Amelia corrected herself.

'Yes, and you also spend your days in the company of a load of men before going to get drunk in a pub. You are a bit odd, the usual rules don't apply. Super's probably right, that May must've gone to see someone, it went wrong and then they panicked.'

'Do you know why killers target prostitutes? Because no one is looking for them or is going to go to the police about a missing girl,' Amelia snapped.

'Did _you_ know that pros get paid for sex? That's their job and sex often leads to a baby. It's what you'd call an occupational hazard,' Gene replied with a shrug.

'So May deserved what she got? She shouldn't ever have ended up in this situation. She should be able to end the pregnancy in a safe and hygienic environment.'

'I _never_ said that she deserved what she got. Why are you so upset about it anyway?' Gene demanded exasperatedly.

'I'm not! I'm not, I just…' she began and trailed off, turning away from him.

'Look, why don't we go and talk to Nicola's husband? See if she told him that she was going to see someone about-' Gene suggested gently, as a concession in the hope that she wouldn't cry and make him feel even more unnecessarily guilty than he already did.

'She told him she was going to see her sister. I doubt she would have told him if she was going to see someone about an abortion,' Amelia sniffed, 'We should go back to the hospitals, obviously some anaesthetic had been used on May. We can see if anything has been taken.'

'Hmm.'

'What did you want to tell me anyway?' Amelia asked, dabbing her eyes on the cuff of her sleeve.

'What?'

'You said you had something to tell me.'

'Oh, I went to my house- my real home- and everything was right. I saw my mam and it's going to be all right, because they know that I'm here! I'm not lost. Isn't that good?'

'Yes, it is,' Amelia agreed, forcing a smile, 'Good for you.'

'Oi, are you two going to stand about in the cold all day?' Hale shouted from an open window a couple of floors above them.

* * *

'I think I should try to get in contact with whoever May went to see,' Amelia announced an hour later. They were grouped around their desks as Hale addressed them with the facts they already knew. Amelia was perched on the edge of his desk and Gene was unintentionally admiring the way her backside had moulded around the desk.

'What?'

'Someone must have put her in touch with this person. I could say I'm-'

'Right, and we'll pick you up from the cemetery when you're done? Don't be stupid, Wells, you're no good to us dead,' Hale replied brusquely.

'May was last seen two weeks ago. By our reckoning, she only died a few days ago, around the same time Nicola went missing. She might still be alive; we haven't got time to try anything else.'

'And I haven't got the time or the officers to spare to find you dead in a ditch.'

'But-'

'I said no.'

'Mel, if this is an attempt to… prove yourself, don't. You don't have to do that for anyone,' Keats explained gently.

'Gene?' Amelia tried. He had been sat at his desk, keeping his head down and wondering when she would appeal to him and at the same time hoping she wouldn't.

'Erm…'

'You agree with me, don't you?'

'That you should put yourself in danger? No, we don't want three dead girls,' he answered. She shot him a glower that was worse than any of the other looks she had given him before. They had been filled with irritation and frustration, but always with barely concealed amusement. This look was just disappointed.

'Thanks for the support,' she muttered as she sat down opposite him.

'Look, as a mate-'

'You aren't my _mate_.'

'Well, I'm the closest thing you've got to one here, and generally mates don't let each other put themselves in unnecessary danger to prove a point,' he responded, furious that she was so angry with him when all he was trying to do was protect her. If she was too stupid to realise that then it was her own fault.

'Prove a point? That murdering women is wrong?'

'No, trying to impress. There will be a way to get this bastard that doesn't involve offering yourself up as bait. It's a case of waiting for the right moment-'

'Unfortunately I'm not as lucky as you, I can't look up my friends and family. The only way I can see them again is if I sort this out, the sooner the better… and I'm going to do that with or without you arseholes,' she snarled, kicking back her chair and storming out of the office.

Gene went back to rifling through the files he was looking at with unwarranted venom, mulling over the things he would have liked to say to Wells which he knew full well would have earned him a slap round the face.

'I'll go and talk to her,' Keats suggested.

'No, Hunt can go and take one for the team,' Hale interjected.

'Sir-!' Gene began to protest, unwilling to enter the minefield of trying to diffuse Amelia's anger.

'Never have I so happily pulled rank on a colleague,' Hale continued, ignoring his DC's complaints and instead motioning for him to leave the office.

He found Amelia back outside CID, huddled on the stone steps.

'Go away,' she said without even turning around.

'I didn't want to come and sit out here with you, Miss Misery.'

'And yet here you are.'

'Looks like you're stuck with me… You do understand what Hale was saying though, don't you? I mean, we would all feel like pansies if we let you put yourself in a situation like that.'

'Why? Just because a woman was doing her job?'

'Because we're supposed to be looking after you.'

'I thought we- the police- were looking after the public?' Amelia asked.

'Yeah, and how are we supposed to do that if we don't play to our strengths and let our WPC's get hurt?'

'I don't need you to protect me. I need you to help me get home,' Amelia replied softly.

'I think I need to get back… I can't tell which way is up or down anymore. I suppose that's what happens when you might have been shot, your judgement goes a bit off kilter,' Gene sighed.

'Shot?'

'Amy… do- erm, d'you fancy dinner? Tonight, I mean.'

'Dinner? Wow,' she repeated, looking impressed.

'Your place, or mine? I'm not fussed, but your landlady might get the wrong idea about what meal you're having…'

'Is this some sort of terrible chat up line? What's brought this on?'

'Well, I've been living off chips for the past couple of days and I reckoned you might know your way around a kitchen better than I do.'

'Oh, so you want me to make your dinner for you?' she clarified incredulously.

'Well, yeah, if you want to be blunt.'

'You know, I was just beginning to reconsider labelling you as a sexist stereotype.'

'And now?'

'The label is firmly back on.'

* * *

'I'm going to be malnourished, just so you know… or get scurvy,' Gene added as he picked up another chip.

'There's peas on that plate!' Amelia replied indignantly as she speared a chip of her own on the end of her fork. They were sitting in a chip shop after she had admitted defeat, having previously relied on the now mythical microwave to conjure dinner at home. She was trying to avoid looking at the couple sitting to the side of them, holding hands across the table. It made her miss Rob worse than ever. Her companion seemed completely oblivious as he wolfed down the food in front of him. Amelia barely picked at hers, she hadn't been aware of hunger since she awoke in this place and wondered if this loss of appetite was another symptom of madness. She wished she had studied psychosis now, she might have been able to understand this better if she had. All she knew was that dreaming was often symbolic, but could find no relevance in this place or the people in it.

'I could have rustled something up if there was a Sainsburys or Tesco. I never thought I'd miss Tesco,' she confessed, 'I can't cook anything from scratch.'

'You should have been a bloke. You're a rubbish woman,' Gene declared.

'Maybe I should have been. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about you trying to misguidedly protect me.'

'Nor would you have to worry about everyone sneaking a look at your fantastic upstairs,' he said absentmindedly, nodding at her blouse. She now wondered why the person she had imagined so fully had to be this one.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed. This may go on a little hiatus now as I started uni today (scary). Know only that I love Gene and will come back to him...**


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